


You Belong With Me

by DAZzle_10



Series: You belong with me [1]
Category: Rugby RPF, Rugby Union RPF
Genre: Coming Out, Developing Relationship, Getting Together, Homophobia, M/M, More Characters than I could be bothered to add individually (sorry), Swearing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-15
Updated: 2019-05-18
Packaged: 2019-07-12 19:35:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 24
Words: 68,535
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16001867
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DAZzle_10/pseuds/DAZzle_10
Summary: Summaries are hardly my thing, but in essence, Owen Farrell and Dylan Hartley get together and subsequently struggle with coming out, rivalries, showing emotions to each other, and everything else that two non-straight professional rugby players in a relationship with one another might have to contend with.Includes awkward conversations about sexuality, singing to Justin Bieber (something that, according to Dylan, they apparently do partake in on occasion...) arguing over results in matches, and much more.Partially inspired by 'honey you're familiar' by nymeriahale, which first got me thinking about Dylan and Owen as a couple.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is only my second piece of fanwork that I've ever put in the view of anyone outside of a very close friend... Here's hoping it goes OK.  
> This is not meant to suggest anything about any real people or situations; this is a work of fiction, and nothing is being implied about any of the people featured in this work, or indeed anyone at all. A lot of the events are based on reality, such as fixtures and results, but that does not mean I am suggesting that everything that is written within this work is true.  
> Chapter lengths will vary hugely in size.  
> If you want to comment and say you don't like this, feel free. I don't mind - you can even tear it, and me, to shreds or whatever (NOT literally, please). As long as you bring good rugby chat along with your criticism.  
> I think that's everything...? Oh - and the title comes from the Coldplay song 'Swallowed in the Sea'. A lot of chapter titles (if I bother with them) will probably follow a similar vein.

Owen could swear that Dylan’s looking at him. He’s not sure what to make of the gaze, can’t work out what he might have done to irritate the older man – if that’s what’s causing the look that prickles the back of his neck every time it turns to him – but he hopes Dylan will tell him, whatever it is, because a strain in their relationship is really _not_ what Owen wants right now; it wouldn’t be good for the team, and also… well…

No one needs to know that Owen’s been watching Dylan as well – when he gets the chance. Certainly, Dylan doesn’t need to find out.

_What if that’s why he’s staring back?_

Owen isn’t sure what he’d do if Dylan found out that Owen’s been eyeing him – checking him out, even, because Owen isn’t about to deny what he’s been doing in his own head – but he thinks it would involve begging one of his Sarries mates or Fordy to let him share a room with one of them and forever avoiding Dylan’s gaze.

“Faz, you mind if I ask a question?”

Reluctantly, Owen looks up from his blank phone screen. It’s not that he’s been _pretending_ to look at his phone, as such; he was, but then he got distracted by Dylan’s continuous glances, and when it switched off automatically, he didn’t get around to turning it back on. And maybe he wanted an excuse to ignore the awkward silence, but that’s beside the point now that Dylan’s broken it.

“Sure…?” he agrees cautiously.

Luckily, Dylan doesn’t look particularly disgusted or angry with him, so he probably doesn’t know about Owen’s feelings – though his Captain does seem somewhat… uncomfortable.

“You’re gay, right?”

Owen stares at him, unsure what to make of this question. Dylan’s one of the few people in the England squad who knows about his sexuality – the only non-Saracens member besides Fordy – and it seems very strange to be asking that when they’ve already had this discussion before. Then again, it doesn’t really come up much, and it was a while ago they last talked about it…

“Yeah,” he nods. “Why?”

For a long moment, Dylan is silent.

“Is… Is it possible to be straight but interested in a man – or gay and interested in a woman?”

Owen hesitates, cocking his head to the side. It’s not something he’s ever thought about before, but he’d rather not say ‘no’ immediately.

“I don’t know,” he admits. “I mean, you can be bi, and I don’t think that has to be 50-50? But I don’t… I don’t know.”

Slowly, Dylan nods. He seems to accept the answer, which is good. Owen is slightly embarrassed by how desperate he is to be helpful to Dylan at the moment, but he can’t really help it. He feels like a teenager, crushing on Fordy and dealing with the consequential sexuality crisis without being able to discuss it with his best friend like he normally would any problem – only Fordy is long since back in the friend zone and he’s fairly comfortable in his sexuality, even if most people don’t know. Really, the only problem is the interest in Dylan.

“Right,” Dylan stands, stretching, and yawns. “You’re single at the moment, aren’t you, Faz?”

Flushing awkwardly, Owen jerks his head in a stiff nod. He can feel his cheeks warming, ribs shuddering with the sudden increase of his heartbeat, though he knows it’s just a passing question.

“Haven’t really… met anyone lately,” he feels that he has to explain, though he hasn’t exactly been looking.

“Right,” Dylan repeats. “I’m going to go to bed, alright, mate?”

Owen watches him head into the bathroom, struggling to control the twisting mix of apprehension and anticipation low in his stomach. He needs to get a handle on this before it gets out of his grasp. It’s not going to end well, for himself or the team, if this doesn’t stop soon.

 

“Hey, Fordy,” Owen grins, slapping the younger man on the back, and Fordy stumbles forward, then turns and mock-glares at him.

Owen smirks back, internally pleased with himself, and receives a huff and an eyeroll from his longest-standing friend on the England team. The response doesn’t bother him; he’s used to it, just as George’s reaction shows how used to Owen the other man is.

“You alright?” Fordy’s the first to concede and break his frown, Owen letting his smirk fall away a second later to nod.

“Good, thanks, mate – you?”

“Yeah, I’m alright,” Fordy nods. “Aching.”

Owen nods again, sympathetic. Contact training is never great on the body, even if it does do wonders for the psychology of the game – Owen’s thanked whatever higher powers exist for contact training countless times in matches – and he feels Fordy’s pain (literally).

“Ah, cheer up,” he nudges his friend anyway. “It only gets easier from here, remember?”

“That’s the spirit,” Dylan announces behind him, and Owen turns at the hand that lands on his shoulder to find Dylan staring at him.

For a second, their eyes meet, and he feels his throat run dry in an instant, a flush beginning to rise in his cheeks as his heartrate picks up. He’s such a _fucking_ idiot, letting this happen, but it feels a little uncontrollable by now.

Before his cheeks can redden too much, he jerks his eyes away, searching for something to say. Behind him, Fordy coughs.

“I’ve got to find Ben…”

“You alright, Faz?” Dylan asks when it’s just the two of them.

“Yeah…” Owen shakes himself, forces some semblance of composure as he manages a brief smile. “Just… stiff.”

Dylan nods, grimacing.

“You want some help with that after dinner?”

Owen, like the absolute _moron_ he is, agrees. An hour later, gritting his teeth together as Dylan’s thumbs dig into the knots in his back, UK Top 40 songs or something similar playing throughout their shared room, he can’t bring himself to regret it – apart from when Dylan shifts to his calves, and then he can’t help but hiss at the dig of Dylan’s fingers into his tight muscle; the lactic acid, no matter how hard he’s worked to get rid of it, hasn’t quite been willing to leave his legs, and Dylan appears to have hit upon the worst of it.

“Alright?” Dylan checks, and his hands rest on Owen’s leg, warm and firm. Owen’s so glad that he’s lying on his front.

“Yeah,” he lies through his teeth, setting his jaw and biting his lip when Dylan starts up his massage again.

He has fucked up, he knows, but he can’t really see a way out of this, now. He’s stuck until the feelings pass, and with the amount of times he finds himself in situations like this, it’s probably going to be a while. Unless, of course, he tells Dylan and gets outright rejected, but a) he’s never going to tell Dylan, and b) that probably wouldn’t work anyway.

Sighing, he scrubs at his eyes and twists around to look at Dylan. The older man meets his gaze after a moment, offering a smile, and he returns it automatically, swallowing when Dylan doesn’t look away for several long seconds. Only when Dylan’s head finally drops back towards Owen’s leg does he turn back to stare at his hands, wondering vaguely if he can get away with this for the three Tests ahead of them and just hope it goes away before Six Nations.

…Who is he kidding? This has been growing for months. It’s going to take at least as long to fade again.

 

Scrubbing at his eyes, Owen sighs. He doesn’t like this, doesn’t like it at all, and he’s pretty sure Eddie knows it; he may have made himself a little _too_ clear in his disgruntlement. He knows Maro is in the same boat as him, knows that they shared the same reaction, but that doesn’t make it any better.

Being dropped from the matchday 23 – even for rest after a Lions tour – is horrible.

He understands why, even if he doesn’t want to admit it. If he doesn’t get a rest at some point, he’ll run himself out. That doesn’t mean he has to want one.

“You alright, mate?” Dylan slaps him on the back, and Owen realises that he’s been standing in the middle of their shared room for far longer than he should have been.

Embarrassment floods his cheeks as he kicks his legs into action and moves out of the way to slump onto their couch instead. For several seconds, he tries not to meet Dylan’s eyes, but looking away completely would be rude, and looking at any other part of Dylan’s body is… not helpful, so in the end, he lifts his gaze.

“Yeah,” he forces a smile. “Fine.”

Dylan eyes him, unconvinced and sympathetic.

“Eddie resting you?”

Reluctantly, he nods.

“Ah, right,” Dylan grimaces, crossing to join him on the couch, and claps him hard on the leg.

Owen tries not to pay attention to the lump that forms in his throat at the contact, and he knows he’s imagining the sense that Dylan’s hand lingers on his thigh for a second, but it’s a nice wish all the same. At least it distracts him from his restless frustration, if only for a second.

“Look, it sucks,” Dylan acknowledges after a few seconds’ pause. “But you’ve worked hard non-stop over the past year at least. You’re one of our key players; we need you to take the break.”

“I _know_ I need to rest…” Owen sighs, opting to ignore the ‘key player’ statement. “I just…”

“Don’t want to?”

Dylan’s lips twitch, amusedly empathetic, and Owen can only nod miserably. He feels a little pathetic for reacting like this, in all honesty; he’s surprised that Dylan hasn’t outright laughed at him.

“Yeah, it’s hard,” Dylan nods, sighs, and with one final pat of Owen’s leg – and surely Owen’s imagination will grow tired of elongating the touches eventually, but he’ll appreciate the effect while it lasts – stands.

Owen watches him go, breath caught in his chest for one short moment, then blows out the air that’s been trapped in his lungs and tries to calm his beating heart. All of his efforts are ruined when Dylan pauses at the door and turns to look at him.

“Faz, just… We’ll miss you out on the field, yeah?”

And _fuck_ , if ‘we’ doesn’t sound a little bit like ‘I’.

 

“Faz?” Dylan asks on the Tuesday night after Argentina, as Owen tries to soothe his aching muscles after a day of hard training.

Grunting in acknowledgement, he cranes his head round to look at the older man. Dylan’s staring right at him, not bothering to make a point of hiding it, and there’s something dark in his gaze that Owen – who prides himself on being fairly good at reading his teammates – can’t really decipher.

“Look, this may come off wrong…” Dylan sighs, and Owen feels his heart drop, dread pooling in its place. “There’s… I wanted to ask something. If I’m stepping over a line, just let me know. I just… How did you know you’re gay?”

_Er…_

It takes Owen a moment to register what Dylan’s actually asked, and twice that to even begin formulating an answer.

“Well…” he trails off, already lost for words. “I – I just knew I liked guys.”

He’s tempted to add ‘How did you know you’re straight?’, but he’s really not very sure that Dylan _is_ straight anymore, given the questions he’s been asking recently. Owen’s not stupid. He remembers trying to hedge around similar queries with his parents, deflecting them into ‘How did you know you liked each other?’ instead.

“So it wasn’t just _one_ guy?” Dylan presses.

It was, actually. It was very definitely one guy… and then a load more, once he got over Fordy and realised that he only liked him because he was the only good-looking guy that Owen felt comfortable enough around to admit that he _did_ like, at the time when he _really_ started thinking about all of that.

“I mean… There was at first,” he sighs, scrubbing a hand over his eyes. “Then more. There was one I was willing to admit that I… you know… to myself, but he probably wasn’t the first.”

He’s making a mess of this, he knows, and after a moment’s pause, he has to correct himself.

“I _know_ , looking back, that he wasn’t the first.”

Dylan nods slowly. Owen waits for him to say something, but nothing is forthcoming. Dylan merely stares over his shoulder, determinedly not meeting his eyes, and Owen can’t think of anything else to offer. There is a clear suspicion in his mind as to why Dylan is asking him about this, and he really wants to know if he’s right or not – and, he tells himself, it’s not at all because of his stupid, childish _crush_ on the man: only that he’d like someone to talk to, to relate to about the misery of always having to watch what you say and to whom.

“Why?” he finds himself asking. “Are you – Do you –”

He stumbles, tripping over his own words, and gives up. Luckily, Dylan gets the message and sighs, lifting a shoulder as he grimaces.

“I don’t know,” he confesses. “…Why _that_ guy in particular?”

It’s Owen’s turn to shrug, and he should _probably_ get off the floor for this sort of discussion, but moving now would be too awkward, and his muscles will kill him tomorrow if he doesn’t get this done now.

“Well, it was someone I got on well with, so… It panicked me less,” he huffs out a nervous laugh. “If it hadn’t been him, I probably would have talked to him about it, but it was, so… I talked to him anyway, actually. He was alright with it.”

Dylan finally looks at him.

“Ford,” he guesses, and Owen has to blink.

“Uh…” he briefly considers not replying, but that’s a clear give-away, and there’s no point in lying. “…Yeah. It was a bit awkward, but he was fine when I told him he wasn’t really my…”

He stops just short of saying ‘type’. He’s not sure how Dylan worked it out, and he’s not really sure he wants to know, but he’s not overly keen to share more personal information. Unfortunately, Dylan’s very good at reading between the lines – possibly just because it’s Owen, and they’ve shared a room for most of their shared England careers, or possibly because that’s part of what makes Dylan an excellent Captain – and Owen tries not to flush when he gets a considering frown from the older man.

“Not your type, right? How do you know he’s not if you liked him?”

Fuck Dylan for looking so genuinely interested. Fuck Owen’s brain for actually wanting to answer just to make him happy. Does he have no regard for his own privacy?

“All the other guys have been… different to him,” he explains awkwardly.

“Like how?”

“Bigger,” is the first thing that Owen blurts out, before his brain catches up with his tongue – at least it isn’t ‘ _you_ ’ – and his cheeks burn as he turns his attention fixedly to the pattern of his foam roller. “I mean… I’m not – It’s…”

When he glances up, Dylan looks like he’s trying his hardest not to laugh, so Owen gives up. He’s only going to make it worse if he tries to explain it.

“Like Hask big?” Dylan presses, and shit, he’s just doing it to wind Owen up now, but his smile is brilliant, the corners of his eyes crinkled familiarly with mischief, and Owen is so caught up in it that he really does nearly forget himself and say ‘no, more like you’.

“More like Jinx,” he says instead.

“Jinx,” Dylan repeats, slowly, and is it Owen’s imagination, or is there a hint more seriousness in his expression now? “Huh. Are you…? Is Jinx…?”

“No!” Owen cuts in, not even needing to know the end of either question before he answers; he’s pretty sure he can guess the direction that was going in. “Not Jinx. Just… around his size. General… Hooker size, I guess.”

Shit, he’s just digging himself into a deeper and deeper hole, and he’s not sure how to get himself out.

“What about you?” he deflects, so that he has more time to work out what the fuck he’s going to do, even if Dylan can’t – or won’t – answer.

“I don’t know,” Dylan shrugs, and he looks so much more relaxed about this than Owen feels, which is strange, given that Owen’s the one who knows he’s gay, who’s out to his friends and family if no one else.

Then again, Dylan isn’t the one having this discussion with the current (and fairly long-term) object of his interests.

“There’s only been one guy – that’s why I was asking the other day, remember? Describing him would probably give him away.”

“Oh,” Owen swallows. “So I know him?”

He’s not sure what he’s missing, what Dylan hasn’t told him, but the Saints player is watching him with no small level of amusement, hidden in the curl of his lips and the creases next to his eyes.

“Fairly well, I reckon.”

Trying to ignore the lump in his throat, Owen nods slowly.

“Do you know if he’s…?”

“He’s gay,” Dylan tells him flatly. “Pretty definitely.”

“…Oh,” Owen frowns, and tries to ignore the suspicions sparking to life in the back of his head, because he can’t afford to think about that. “And I know him fairly well…”

“Very well,” Dylan leans back on his elbows, and Owen wishes he had Dylan’s confidence, because if he did, he’d just straight up ask the question that’s buzzing on the tip of his tongue. “…Don’t make me say it, Faz.”

Owen is sure that his entire face is flaming with redness. It’s there – right there, ready for him to grasp – but if he gets this wrong… Determinedly, he stares at the floor and shakes his head.

“I don’t – I don’t know…”

His heart is thundering in his chest, his fingers tingling with the restless need to _do something_ , but he’s not on a rugby pitch, and he doesn’t know any other way to let this kind of frustration out. Even his breathing feels shaky, uneven as he fidgets and bites his lip.

Unfortunately, Dylan seems to have reached the limit of what he’s willing to say, too, neither of them quite wanting to stretch over the mark. Silence falls, and Owen wants to just ask, because he’s sure he’s right, but on the off-chance that he’s wrong… He can’t risk ruining their relationship as Captain and Vice-Captain, let alone as roommates.

He can’t sacrifice the game and the team for his own personal feelings.

“Fuck’s sake,” Dylan mutters. “One of us has to say it… You, Faz. Happy?”

Owen nods before he can help himself, and stops immediately when he catches himself, but it’s true. He is happy. He just has no idea where to go from here, has never really thought this far – never, in all the time he’s had his eye on Dylan, expected anything to come of it.

“I –” he stops, tries to think of how to proceed. “…You want to get a drink sometime? Outside of Pennyhill?”

He chances a glance up at Dylan and finds the older man staring back at him, surprised and yet somehow still amused.

“Hooker size?” Dylan echoes Owen’s earlier words. “Yeah, sounds good. Tomorrow evening?”

“Works for me,” Owen manages a hopeful grin, shaky with relief, and _shit_ , this is happening.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Er... I blame a very full training schedule for a complete lack of updating or anything...? I sort of dived back into my normal hours after going away on holiday at the end of pre-season, so... That's the excuse, anyway! Bad habit to start a story with, I know, but there we go.  
> Rather short chapter, this one, but hopefully the next won't take as long, and it should be longer. Part of it is definitely inspired by something Dylan said on a podcast once.  
> Also really need to get up to date with this so I can write about the co-captaincy, because honestly, I am so excited about that. I think I might be one of the only England Rugby fans who DOES like it, but there we go. Ah well. At least Eddie made a great comment about them holding hands...

“Cause if you like the way you look that much,” Dylan sings in Owen’s ear, and Owen bats him away, unable to hide his grin all the same, “You should go and love yourself – come on, Faz!”

Rolling his eyes, Owen stays firmly silent, but Dylan won’t stop staring at him. Huffing, he crosses his arms, unable to stop the faintest of blushes forming under Dylan’s intense stare. He can’t deny that the way Dylan often looks at him unsettles him slightly; it’s not that he’s afraid of commitment, it’s just that… he sort of is? He doesn’t remember the last time he attempted a relationship with anyone. Rugby comes first, and anything that gets in the way of that is a problem, so Owen’s hardly about to go diving into anything.

Maybe that’s not the _best_ way to approach a relationship – maybe it leaves them a little too emotionally stilted at times, relying too much on the physical side – but… Owen doesn’t really see that changing anytime soon. They’re managing well enough, aren’t they?

“And if you think that I’m still holding on to something…” Dylan raises his eyebrows. “You should go and love yourself.”

Chewing his lip, Owen lets Dylan’s arm settle over his shoulder. The older man’s fingers trace light circles on his upper arm, ghosting his skin through the fabric of his shirt, and reluctantly, he opens his mouth to sing the next verse with Dylan.

“When you told me that you hated my friends…” he almost stops again at the look of triumph on Dylan’s face, just out of spite, but he _does_ like singing, when he’s among family, friends or teammates. “The only problem was with you and not them, and every time you told me my opinion was wrong – Dylan!”

Breaking away from the kiss, he stares incredulously at his boyfriend – and it’s an exciting thought, to realise that he’s actually ended up in something of a working, if not _overly_ affectionate, relationship with Dylan – as he shakes his head.

“Did you ask me to start singing just so you could interrupt me?” he demands, and Dylan’s answering shrug and grin is the only response he needs.

_Fair enough, then._

Justin Bieber continues to play in the background as Owen leans back in, lifting a hand to Dylan’s shoulder and shifting up on the couch a little to get a better angle with easier reach, so that he isn’t craning his neck too much.

“Not complaining, I see,” Dylan closes the gap between them, fingers taking hold of Owen’s hip to pull him closer, and Owen feels the rumble of laughter in his boyfriend’s chest as he nearly loses his balance.

“This couch isn’t made for this,” he grumbles as they break apart again, glancing up to meet Dylan’s sparkling eyes.

“No,” Dylan agrees. “Tell you what…”

Owen allows himself to be tugged upright, frowning in confusion as the song switches: ‘Let me love you’ playing through the tinny speakers of Dylan’s phone. Understanding follows a moment later as Dylan takes hold of Owen’s hands and lifts them to his shoulders, then settles his own on Owen’s hips.

_Oh._

This seems… strangely romantic on Dylan’s part, a different tone to the relationship that’s been developing so far, though it _has_ been over a month – coming up to two, in fact. It’s just unexpected – Owen’s not complaining. As long as he isn’t the one having to take the initiative and risk the level of mortification that comes with mis-stepping.

Tilting his head forward, the older man kisses him softly, and, through the growing flush in his cheeks, Owen has to admit that this is… nice.

“Better?” Dylan offers, and he nods, ducking his head to hide in Dylan’s shoulder; nice and better it may be, but it’s still embarrassing, especially since Dylan, whether deliberately or not, has quite firmly taken the… well, the traditionally male role.

Then again, no one else is going to see them, and Dylan’s hardly going to laugh at him. One of them has to do it, really, so…

Lifting his head, he forces away his doubts and smiles unabashed at his boyfriend, pressing their lips together once more – for longer, this time.

 

Their room is quiet, peaceful, and Owen suspects that if they were to head out into the corridor, it would still be utterly silent, because the clock reads 05:47, and they should probably still be asleep… but they’re not. They took an early night last night, so it’s not like they’re missing out on anything.

He likes this: more than he’s quite willing to admit, because their relationship is strong, stable, but they don’t _talk_ about things like that. It stays unspoken, shoved aside somewhere along with the ‘ _I missed you_ ’s and the ‘ _I’d rather spend this time together than with the lads_ ’. They don’t see each other much outside of England camps – have to make do with video and phone calls, and texts, of course – and maybe that’s part of the problem, but Owen doesn’t like to dwell on it.

Dylan’s warm, the rise of his chest regular and soothing, and that’s all that _really_ matters, right now. They’re here, Dylan’s smiling, and everything is calm.

“I feel like we should let someone in camp know about this,” Owen murmurs quietly. “Just because…”

He’s not sure how to explain it, but Dylan’s nodding, fingers pausing in their movement where they’ve been tracing the lines of Owen’s abdomen with a sort of detached curiosity.

“Who, though?” he adds, getting a thoughtful frown from Dylan in response.

Suddenly, he knows who they need to tell, and he feels his eyes close of their own accord as he voices the name at exactly the same time as his boyfriend.

“Eddie.”

 _Shit_.

Telling Eddie, of all people, seems somehow more frightening than anything Owen’s done in his entire life – apart from coming out to his parents, perhaps. Never mind that Eddie’s their _International_ coach: he’d be the first person they’ve told about this, the first person other than Owen whom Dylan would have come out to, and that is… utterly terrifying.

It needs to be done, though, just in case something goes wrong: in case the lads find out, or their relationship falls apart, or fuck knows what else. It needs to happen soon, too (before they have time to back out).

Luckily, when dawn marches in and a reasonable wake-up time rolls around, it doesn’t take long to track Eddie down and ask for a meeting at some point – only ‘some point’ turns out to be ‘now’, and Owen catches Dylan’s wide-eyed look of panic as Eddie beckons them into his office. They haven’t exactly planned what they’re going to say…

This is very unlikely to go well.

“What can I do for the two of you?” Eddie smiles at them as they sit down, addressing his question mostly to Dylan, but Owen suspects that Dylan isn’t comfortable saying what needs to be said, so he coughs quietly.

“Dylan and me…” he shifts under Eddie’s expectant gaze, understanding why Dylan looked so uncomfortable a moment ago. “We worked something out recently…”

Less than two months is recent, isn’t it? It hasn’t been _that_ long, and they _are_ still working some things out.

Eddie’s eyebrow only rises. Owen knows he’s hedging around the subject a little, knows he should just get straight to the point, but the idea of saying it aloud is becoming increasingly nerve-wracking, and he doesn’t even know how to phrase it.

“We’re dating,” he finds himself blurting out like some sort of naïve, clueless high school kid, blood rushing to his cheeks as Eddie’s other eyebrow lifts to join the first. “And we thought we should…”

“Let me know,” Eddie fills in, nodding. “Firstly, thank you for your trust, boys. I hope this won’t affect the team?”

Hastily, Owen shakes his head; rugby comes first in his eyes – always will – and he hopes that Dylan feels the same. To his relief, Dylan’s mirroring his gesture, and their eyes meet as they glance at one another simultaneously for reassurance.

“And are you interested in telling the rest of the boys right now?”

“No,” Dylan cuts in sharply.

For the briefest of split-seconds, Owen wonders if he should be offended by that, but he decides against it almost instantaneously. Dylan’s obviously not too comfortable in his sexuality – whatever it is – and he doesn’t really mind. He’s not sure that he wants the others to know either; they need time to work themselves out without getting constant ribbing, for a start, and Owen doesn’t think that anything will go well if the rest of the England squad get involved.

“That’s fine,” Eddie nods, smiling at them. “I trust you both to be professional about this.”

Both Owen and Dylan recognise their coach’s dismissal when they hear it, and they rise together. Owen lets out a low breath, feeling the tension release in his shoulders; that went better than he’d thought it would.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I said it would be sooner! Getting really excited for the November Tests, now. Unfortunately, this chapter takes a more sombre note - dealing with the latter end of the Six Nations, specifically with the losses to France and Ireland (we're pulling through, guys, and we'll get revenge next spring).   
> I feel like there's quite a lot of dialogue in this one compared to my normal writing, but there we go. As long as the handful of people who read it like it...

“Owen, it wasn’t your fault.”

Owen sets his jaw, fixes his gaze stubbornly on the distant horizon, and doesn’t respond. Behind him, he hears Dylan’s sigh – a quiet rush of exhaled air – and clenches his fists tighter in response. He doesn’t want to turn right now, doesn’t want to meet Dylan’s gaze: doesn’t think he could if he tried. There’s no denying that their discipline was terrible, and as Captain, it’s his job to sort that out. He didn’t manage it – couldn’t control the team – and now, they’ve lost two Tests in a row.

“Being Captain doesn’t mean you get all the blame when the team loses,” Dylan murmurs, closer to him now, then a hand lands on his shoulder, pressing down firmly to turn him.

Reluctantly, he follows the pull, but stares steadfastly at the floor beneath their feet instead of raising his eyes to Dylan’s.

“I know,” he mutters – knows that Dylan is entirely unconvinced by his words.

“Then why are you moping around like this?”

“I’m not!” he frowns, finally lifting his head. “I’m fine.”

It’s just that a sick, bitter disappointment is twisting in his gut, and he can feel the weight of the team’s defeat bearing down upon him, knows that there must have been something he could have done better, both as a player and as Captain – and it kills him to not _quite_ be sure of what.

“Whatever,” Dylan snorts and rolls his eyes. “Come and sit with me, yeah, mate?”

Shoulders hunching just a little, Owen trudges after Dylan and drops down onto the edge of the mattress when Dylan pats the space, still determined to pretend that everything’s alright. He’ll just have to talk to Eddie at some point, learn what he needs to do to be better and work even harder at improving.

He’ll find something – something more than the weaknesses he already knows about, because there has to be more.

“You’re being ridiculous,” Dylan tells him flatly. “Yeah, it was a bad game; it sucked. The result wasn’t good, and it just happened to be your first match as Captain. That doesn’t mean you have to go around thinking that everything’s your fault – and you certainly don’t have to pretend you’re alright when you’re pretty obviously not.”

He’s just about hit the nail on the head, but Owen’s hardly about to tell him that.

“I’m fine,” he repeats.

He can tell from Dylan’s huff that the older man is beginning to get irritated, but he doesn’t care. He just wants to know what he can do to get better, and then he wants to go to bed. Preferably in that order, but he doubts he’ll manage that.

“Even if I hadn’t been dating you for over three months, we’ve been sharing a room for ages. I think I know when you’re putting on a brave face.”

“Do you?” Owen asks as casually as he can manage, but the effort is beginning to wane, now; there’s only so long he can keep up this front.

“Yes,” Dylan rests a hand on his thigh, squeezing gently. “Come on, Faz. Talk to me.”

Sighing, Owen scrubs at his eyes. He can feel his resolve weakening, even as he finally acknowledges that he _should_ probably talk to Dylan about all this – if only because Dylan can help him improve…

Who is he kidding? He just wants to be able to talk to someone about this – someone who cares about him – and Dylan is familiar, safe, one of the few people that he doesn’t mind admitting weaknesses to, if only every once in a while.

“I just…” he struggles to actually formulate his answer. “I don’t know what…”

He doesn’t know how to explain what he’s feeling, doesn’t know how to voice the internal troubles he’s struggling with at the moment, and Dylan sighs, rubbing his leg.

“Alright. Let’s see if I can put it into words, yeah?”

When Dylan turns to face him, Owen mirrors the movement, bringing one leg up to tuck it under his other knee.

“So, that was your first Test as Captain, and we lost,” Dylan grimaces. “Obviously, losing is bad enough as it is, but you’re feeling more responsible than normal because as Captain, you’re leading the team.”

That’s… pretty much it. Certainly, it’s better phrasing than Owen would ever have managed.

Stiffly, he nods, unsure where to look as he feels his cheeks prickle with heat. He can’t say he really likes how easily Dylan has announced his worries aloud, regardless of the privacy they have here, alone in their shared room – but at the same time, the knowing edge to Dylan’s tone is somewhat comforting.

“Alright,” Dylan sighs again. “Look, Owen, losing is tough, you _did_ have more responsibility for the team, and that’s going to hurt. That doesn’t make it your fault – not this game, anyway.”

Shrugging, Owen stares at his hands, folded in his lap.

“But there were still things I should’ve done better,” he points out, needs Dylan to acknowledge this so that he knows his boyfriend isn’t lying to his face just to make him feel better.

“Yeah, of course,” Dylan nods. “We can talk about that tomorrow, right, mate?”

Finally, Owen allows himself to relax. This game hasn’t been his best, but if he can learn from his mistakes, then he’s happy to move on.

When Dylan reaches out, settling a hand on his shoulder and leaning in, he follows the pull willingly. Dylan’s lips meet his in a chaste yet tender kiss, and Owen shifts to press closer to the older man; sleep can wait a little longer.

 

Trying to keep his internal misery out of his expression, Owen sticks close to Dylan’s side. He doesn’t bother to pretend he’s happy for the Ireland players – knows that they don’t care either way – though he does manage a tight smile when he sees Johnny, simply for the sake of their maintained communication since 2013.

His leg hurts – worryingly, not just the usual ache of having given everything to the game – and he’s not looking forward to finding out what he’s done, though he’s trying to convince himself that it’s just a worse case of muscle ache than normal. (It’s not. All sports people know the difference between muscle strain and injury, and he really isn’t keen to put much weight on it at the moment.)

He’s just ready to escape from the pitch with the rest of the team and head back to the changing room to hide when he hears his name called out.

“Owen!”

Turning at the familiar voice, he finds his Dad’s face easily in the crowd. Beside him, clearly having been of a similar mind to Owen, Dylan slumps a little and looks around reluctantly, but makes no move to leave Owen for the tunnel.

“Hey, Dad,” he mutters when his Dad reaches them, still grinning widely; he knows that his Dad isn’t trying to mock them, but the blatant glee still stings just a little. “Congratulations.”

His Dad claps him on the shoulder, nodding at Dylan.

“Thanks, mate. I won’t keep you long, yeah? Just wanted to say hi.”

Swallowing, Owen nods and shares a glance with Dylan. He really just wants to disappear from the view of the media, but he’s missed talking to his Dad over the last week of preparation, and he knows he’ll regret it later if he doesn’t stay around for at least a minute or two to talk now. Still, he doesn’t think he’ll be able to stay longer than that.

“Sure,” he manages. “I can always call later for a longer chat…”

_When we’ve all had time to deal with this._

“You’ll pull yourselves out of this,” his Dad nods, a touch of sympathy entering his smile, and Owen wishes that he could be less easy to read for a moment. “But yeah. You should visit when Saracens come over to Leinster. Maybe bring someone along.”

For a moment, Owen squints at him, confused. Who does his Dad think he’d bring along to meet up with his family…? A fair few of the Sarries lads know him, of course, but no one really stands out as someone who’d _particularly_ like to see his Dad…

Then he notices the meaningful glint in his Dad’s eyes, and it hits him. _Oh_.

“I mean, I’ve been trying to convince your Mum that you’re seeing someone, so you’d better come good on that,” his Dad winks, and then his eyes move to Dylan – just a little too quickly, Owen thinks, for it to be a coincidence – and he nods. “It’s good to see you again, Dylan. Hopefully, I’ll get a proper chance to catch up with you at some point.”

Owen’s saved from trying to work out if his Dad knows about Dylan or just suspects – or if he’s reading the signs completely wrong – by his Dad moving away with a final pat to his shoulder.

“Did you tell him?” Dylan demands immediately. “I thought we agreed…”

“I didn’t,” Owen shakes his head. “I don’t know why he… Maybe he’s just guessing?”

The look that Dylan fixes him with is utterly unimpressed. Sighing, Owen can only shrug, looking around Twickenham as though the lines of the pitch might provide him with an answer.

“He knows.”

“He’s not going to tell anyone if he does know,” Owen hurries to assure Dylan – and as he does, it’s worrying to note the slightly dazed expression that his boyfriend wears. “You know he’s not. He probably doesn’t even know for certain. We’ll just keep not saying anything, and he’ll forget about it.”

Slowly, Dylan raises his hand to rub at his forehead. Owen knows that he hasn’t given a very good answer, but he doesn’t have a better one. His family know he’s gay, so it’s hardly a big jump to make, he supposes, if he’s been a bit too comfortable with Dylan at any point. Still, he’s not ready to tell them, isn’t sure he would be even if Dylan was. Eddie’s the only person who knows, and that conversation felt more like a necessity than anything else; the idea of anyone else finding out about their relationship is… overwhelming.

Before either of them can say anymore, Mako calls out to them as he passes

“Coming back to the changing room?”

Dylan nods sharply, falling into step beside Mako, and Owen follows him, leaning in before they enter the tunnel to murmur:

“It’ll be fine.”

Dylan’s expression is less than convinced, but the earlier panic is gone, which Owen takes to be a good sign – though the unsteady gait of Dylan’s walk is far less positive. He suspects that Dylan won’t remember most of this conversation in the morning.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Folau and Leinster - two more *lovely* events - but it's aright, because that win yesterday makes up for it, and it very much looks like Owen is safe from a citing, so... All good. Honestly not sure about the tackle, but the more I watch it, the more I think it's legal, which is a good sign.  
> Dylan and Owen as Co-Captains, though... I love it so much! I already did, and then new material with the two of them started coming out - I'm just disappointed that they didn't end up holding hands out of the tunnel.  
> A little bit of Brad Barritt in this one, and as ever, hope the few people who will read this enjoy it...

“Dylan?”

Owen sighs quietly when his boyfriend doesn’t respond, crossing the darkened room to peer over Dylan’s shoulder at the phone screen that seems to be the source of Dylan’s state of gloominess. Scanning what little of the article he can see, he huffs out another breath and rests his chin on Dylan’s shoulder, wrapping his arms around the older man.

“You shouldn’t be looking at that,” he murmurs quietly. “It’s not good for your concussion.”

Not the reading, not the phone screen, and not the stress. Concussion is not something to be messed with, ever, and even though there is _one_ advantage in that Dylan isn’t training at all, so can stay with Owen for a few days as long as he spends his entire time resting and Owen looks after him, they’d both much rather it hadn’t happened in the first place – and that it heals sooner rather than later.

“Have you read it, though?”

Grimacing, Owen debates whether or not to admit that yes, he has read it – and several other articles on the same topic – and discussed it many times over with various mates at Saracens, all of whom seem to want his opinion on it. Not that he can blame them for it… It just gets old to go over the same depressing conversation time after time.

“Yeah.”

He regrets admitting so as soon as Dylan shrugs his arms away and turns to frown at him.

“And you’re not bothered by it?”

“I _am_ …” Owen hesitates. “I just… It’s not exactly new, is it?”

Sometimes, he forgets that Dylan isn’t _used_ to seeing this sort of thing – or at least, is unused to recognising it as directed towards _him_ – but the look that Dylan fixes him with reminds him immediately. Owen’s known for about half of his life that he’s gay. He’s seen all of those words before – and worse – and it’s still leaves a sour taste in his mouth, still makes him a little wary of what others will say, still commands his decision every time he wonders if it might be the right moment to come out to the fans. At the same time, though, he feels a bit numb to it by now.

Dylan, apparently, hasn’t had the same experience, so Owen searches for something to reassure him.

“You’re not gay,” he points out. “Folau was only talking about gay –”

“You know that he’d include someone like me in this. Anyway, _you_ ’re gay,” Dylan replies, jaw still tight, and Owen can only shrug.

“So?”

“So he’s saying you’re going to hell!” Dylan bursts out, throwing his hands up. “Don’t tell me it doesn’t bother you that this still exists in rugby! Owen, this is someone who’s saying that – that you – and he doesn’t even _know_ you – doesn’t know any of us –”

Owen takes one last look at the screen before the phone, neglected by Dylan in the older man’s distracted indignation, winks into darkness.

“Yeah,” he shrugs. “And he’s not the first, and he won’t be the last.”

“That doesn’t make it better! If anything, that’s worse! Come _on_ , Owen, you can’t seriously just accept this!”

Dylan’s words make sense, that’s the thing. Owen can’t really think of anything to say that explains how he sees it, how desensitised he’s become to the insults and the threats that get thrown at his – at their – community. It’s not good… but at the same time, it’s life.

“It’s…” he trails off, searching for some way to justify how he feels, but nothing really seems to fit, so in the end, he agrees, “It’s shit. I don’t _like_ it, but… I’ve heard it all before, you know? Same words, same reasons… Just different people saying it. It _does_ bother me, or I’d already be out to everyone. I just… I don’t know, Dyl. It’s not a big deal.”

That, apparently, is very much the wrong thing to say.

“Not a big deal? _Not a big deal?_ Folau is saying this where everyone can see this! Have you thought about that? Not only does that make other people feel justified in saying the same thing, but if none of us go against it, that makes us look complicit. You said yourself you won’t come out more publicly, because this scares you –”

“I didn’t say I’m scared!” Owen interrupts, aware of his cheeks flushing at the suggestion.

“But you are,” Dylan dismisses. “Or can you give me a different emotion that this has caused that’s influenced you not coming out? No? So, just think how young academy players must feel, rising up only to feel like they’re being excluded from this world because they’re gay!”

“ _I_ never thought that!” Owen protests. “ _I_ was fine!”

“ _You_ had Andy!”

Owen frowns at that, instantly on the defensive. He knows what people say about him and his dad, is more than aware that they all think he got an easier ride because of his dad’s success, and the worst part is that he doesn’t _know_ if it’s true or not. For all his dad can tell him that he didn’t do anything to deliberately influence the selectors, neither of them can guarantee that Owen being picked for England was merely on his own merit as a player.

Owen hates it.

“What’s that supposed to mean?” he asks anyway, bristling. “My dad didn’t even know when I was going through the academy at Sarries!”

“Yeah, but he would’ve supported you if you’d told him.”

“I didn’t know that!”

It may have been many years ago, and Owen may be very much settled into who he is as a gay man by now, but he still vividly remembers the shame, the guilt, the constant wondering: wondering if his parents could see him texting friends in the know, wondering when they might walk in on him watching what little gay porn he could find, wondering whether he’d be able to get a boyfriend without them noticing and figuring it all out, because he just _didn’t know_.

And yeah, maybe that fear was borne out of everything he heard thrown around by his dad’s teammates, by his own friends, by everyone who had anything to say about it on the TV or in the news and even – though he knows it was never meant in the way Owen took it at the time – by his dad. But that was normal.

He voices that last thought aloud, and Dylan shakes his head.

“That’s my point, Faz,” Dylan sighs. “It shouldn’t be.”

Taking a deep breath, Owen forces himself to calm and really consider everything Dylan has said.

“It really bothers you, doesn’t it?” he mutters grudgingly, and when Dylan nods, he shoves his hands into his pockets and tries not to hunch his shoulders as he wracks his brain for a peace offering. “One day, when we’re out, we can deal with all of that properly, alright?”

He knows it’s worked by the small, tired smile that Dylan gives him in return.

“And we’ll thrash the Aussies in the autumn.”

Despite Dylan’s words, Owen can see the reservations that his boyfriend still holds, and he doesn’t like them. If he can just get Dylan to put this behind him, it will get easier the next time Dylan sees something like this.

“Well,” he takes a deep breath. “If they scare me, at least you scare them back.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Dylan’s brow creases, but he looks reluctantly amused already.

“You’re their worst nightmare,” Owen winks, tilting his head to kiss Dylan chastely then pulling back to grin. “Proof that no one’s safe from the ‘gay agenda’.”

Dylan’s laugh is lighter than his voice has been for the entire conversation.

“It’s your fault,” he points out – and if Owen’s secretly pleased by that, then no one needs to know.

 

They lost to Leinster.

_Shit, they lost to Leinster._

Owen’s been trying to put the Six Nations behind him, but that game just felt like a repeat of the last game of rugby he played: an Irish side, a big occasion, Johnny as his rival… and a crushing defeat. They’ve been knocked out in the quarter finals of the Champions Cup, and Owen isn’t dealing with it well: which is to say, he isn’t dealing with it at all.

Reaching out blindly, he grips Dylan’s shirt and pulls his boyfriend closer so that their chests press flush together with only his hand between them, flat against the solid muscle of Dylan’s pecs. He nips at Dylan’s bottom lip, gets a grunt from the older man before Dylan walks him back towards the bed, one hand on the back of his head and the other reaching around to squeeze his arse firmly.

This is so much better than suffering through a fourth successive blow alone. Four games he’s played, and four he’s lost, and he wants a moment when he doesn’t have to think about that right now.

Reaching down to steady himself before he loses his balance, he sits heavily down on the mattress and pulls Dylan with him, only to find himself the one being manhandled instead as Dylan presses him onto his back and cups his jaw, lips trailing down to Owen’s neck after a moment

If there’s one thing he knows he can always trust Dylan for, it’s this. Dylan’s an… impressive kisser ( _even better after months’ worth of practice with Owen_ ), and it’s easy to get lost in the man’s warmth, no trouble to seek comfort in Dylan without having to worry about the weight of awful, leaden, post-loss feelings. Maybe they’re just emotionally-stunted rugby players, but it’s worked well for them for the past half-year. (Admittedly, this might not be great for Dylan’s brain, but he’s been doing alright this week, and it’s not like this takes _much_ thinking; that’s sort of the idea, isn’t it?)

“ _Faz?_ ”

Brad’s voice is muffled through the door, but Owen freezes instantly, feeling Dylan stiffen against him.

It takes him a moment to find his own ability to speak, dazed as he is from what has, admittedly, been a rather lengthy make-out session for what was supposed to be simple post-match consolation, and when he does reply, his voice is hoarse.

“Yeah?” he croaks: coughs and repeats it louder when he gets no answer.

“Can you open the door, mate? Just wanted to talk.”

_Shit_.

Owen has only to look at Dylan to know that his boyfriend shares his sentiments. There’s nowhere for Dylan to hide, apart from in the bathroom, which just seems a little below their dignity; they may be happy to lie to people’s faces, but to _literally_ hide? It seems a little… far.

Maybe not, actually. Regardless, Owen doesn’t doubt that he’s a mess to look at.

Grimacing, Dylan reaches out to straighten Owen’s hair a little and tug up his collar, then steps out of sight of the door. Only when he’s certain that Dylan’s hidden from view does Owen approach the door and open it reluctantly, trying to stay within its shadow as he forces a smile for his Captain.

“Alright, Faz?” Brad returns the expression, equally pained. “Just wanted to make sure that you know travel plans and everything…? Flight time…?”

“Yeah, I’m good,” Owen nods. “Thanks, Skips.”

“That was all,” Brad turns away, then looks back, frowning. “Look, Faz, I know it was a bad defeat, but if you’re hooking up with someone…”

“What?” Owen swallows, trying not to let his panic seep into his tone; it doesn’t work, and he moves his hand to the door instead to keep it mostly closed as Brad steps forward. “I’m not…”

The eyebrow that Brad raises is very much unimpressed.

“What’s that on your neck, then, mate? Looks pretty dark already.”

Owen’s hand flies to the spot that Dylan’s lips and teeth were pressed to mere moments ago, releasing the door as he does so, and Brad shoves it open to step inside, raising an eyebrow at Owen as if incredulous that he fell for the trick.

“Not hooking up with someone?” the Centre mocks, and a very small part of Owen is relieved that Brad doesn’t seem angry or even particularly annoyed, but the rest of him…

“ _Fuck_ …” he hisses under his breath as he trails after his Captain. “I’m _not_ hooking up with anyone, Brad, I –”

Brad stops: blinks, turns to gape at Owen, looks back at Dylan, who’s just stepped out from around the corner, hands shoved into his pockets with an expression that reads even more discomfort than Owen feels.

Carefully, Owen closes the door to hide his boyfriend from the view of anyone else who might walk down the corridor. Brad remains silent, apparently shocked speechless, and Owen finds himself coughing uncomfortably as he searches for words to explain this.

“Er…”

“ _Hartley_?” Brad demands. “You’re hooking up with _Dylan Hartley_? No offence, Hartley, but…”

Dylan snorts, rolling his eyes, and Owen groans in frustration.

“I’m not hooking up with him,” he accentuates. “You _know_ I have a boyfriend.”

The look on Brad’s face tells Owen that a) Brad had very much forgotten that, and b) the idea of Dylan and Owen together isn’t really clicking.

Huffing, Owen brushes past his Captain to Dylan’s side, recognising the signs of discomfort in Dylan’s expression and body language. Reaching out a hand, he squeezes Dylan’s fingers in reassurance, gets a tightening of grip in return as Brad finally shakes himself.

“…Right. So, you and Hartley are…?”

“Dating,” Owen confirms awkwardly, because it seems a little pointless to lie now, when the evidence is right in front of Brad. “But, like, no one knows, so…”

“Keep your fucking mouth shut, Barritt,” Dylan fills in for him. “Not a word of this to anyone.”

“Aggressive boyfriend there, Faz,” Brad quirks a smile, lifts a hand in apology when Dylan merely glares. “Right, I’m going… I won’t say anything… You two just…” he waves the lifted hand. “Get back to whatever you were doing…”

At the door, Brad pauses, a mischievous glint entering his eye as Owen stands, earlier worry giving way to utter mortification through the relief that Brad is finally _leaving_. Shit, what he wouldn't give to go back in time and have Brad find out some other way –  _any_ other way. 

“Just one thing, Faz: remember to use protection.”

With that, Brad’s gone, the closing of the door doing little to cut off his laughter, and Owen’s left, standing next to Dylan with closed eyes, flaming cheeks and an internal wish that the floor would just swallow him up.

“You alright?” he checks quickly with Dylan when he's managed to clear his throat of its dryness, knowing that however he’s feeling about this, Dylan will be worse.

Luckily, Dylan gives him a genuine smile, squeezing his hand again.

“We can deal with this later,” Dylan assures him. “For now, as irritating as Barritt is, he’s right.”

Owen squints at him, confused. What the fuck has Brad said that Dylan's actually  _agreeing_ with? He sincerely hopes that Dylan isn't about to go off on some tangent about condoms, at least, because he doesn't actually have any with him – sort of didn't think he'd need any today...? They're not planning on going all the way, are they? Not with Dylan's concussion?

“We should get back to what we were doing.”

_That_ , Owen thinks distantly as Dylan’s lips find his once more, _Is very true_.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, well, well... What a game! Won by one, lost by one, and both with their own controversial decisions. The future is definitely looking up for the team, though, and I have so many ideas from all of this... Exciting times!  
> Another short one, this - it was going to be longer, but I left out the end of it for reasons that should become obvious either at the end of this chapter or when the NEXT chapter is finally uploaded.  
> Also, if you have any suggestions/ideas/improvements, or even just wanna let me know that *someone* is reading this...? There's a comment button at the bottom of the page.

“So…” Brad nudges Owen’s shoulder, grinning widely, and Owen can’t help but return the expression, the elation of the victory still coursing through his veins. “Your boyfriend’s not going to be so happy.”

_Shit, he’s not_.

Ignoring the fact that, to Owen’s disappointment, Brad clearly hasn’t forgotten what happened in Ireland, Dylan’s been – for lack of a better word – pissed after every single game that Sarries have played against Saints this season – but maybe he’ll be alright with it this time. After all, he wasn’t playing… Yeah, Dylan will be alright. Maybe a bit annoyed, but surely not furious or anything…?

Shrugging, Owen brushes the thought away as he spots Alex G approaching, triumphant smile as wide as Brad’s. It’s good to be back to winning, good to be over that seven-game slump (now merely a distant echo of mid-winter) and the quarter final against Leinster. All eyes are on the Premiership title, and Owen wants it badly, knows his teammates – his friends have the same hunger, the same drive, as he does – and they’re setting themselves firmly back on track now, gearing up for the final push.

“Heading in, now?” Alex winks at them. “Or do you feel like sharing what you’ve been whispering about.”

Owen looks sharply at Brad, but his Captain simply shrugs and claps him on the back.

“That’s our little secret, mate.”

“Whatever,” Alex snorts. “Come on, then.”

Owen follows the older man happily, the last hints of worries about Dylan’s reaction slipping from his mind. He’s got celebrations to get involved in.

 

Dylan’s greeting when he picks up the phone is low and unenthusiastic, but Owen barely notices. He’s buzzing from the win, high on adrenaline and endorphins and possibly a bit tipsy as well… and he’s spent the last hour at least surrounded by his fellow Saracens, revelling in their success. Even now, alone in his Harpenden home, he can feel his friends’ presence in the excitement that still warms his chest.

“Hey, Dyl,” he beams at the opposite wall, and maybe he’s more than a little tipsy, but it’s just nice to hear his boyfriend’s voice, to be able to come home from a celebration like that and talk to Dylan – but he should definitely leave that point unspoken.

On the other end of the line, Dylan sighs loudly. Owen ignores the reaction, dismissing it as a sign of tiredness – a mistake, undoubtedly – and settles back onto the couch.

“I was thinking… do you want to come round at some point this week?”

This time, when Dylan responds, it’s impossible to miss the sharp edge to his tone.

“What, because I’m the one who isn’t training at the moment? Or because you’ll be too busy with Saracens to make the trek up to me?”

Owen blinks.

“Um…” he begins eloquently.

“Or is it because Sarries are the ones who actually stand a chance of doing well because all the rest of us are shit, so I might as well ditch my own mates?”

Hesitantly, Owen opens his mouth, then closes it again and bites his lip.

“It was just a suggestion…” he rolls his eyes after a second’s pause. “If you don’t want to, you don’t have to – maybe I could come up when the Champions Cup semis are on?”

“We’ll see,” Dylan tells him, and _shit, he’s not happy_.

“Look. Dyl, if you don’t want to see me –”

“ _Nine_ tries, Owen. A _fifty_ -point difference and you expect me to want to discuss this right now?”

Discomforted, Owen shifts. Dylan sounds even madder than last time, and he’s not really sure what to say. It always unsettles him when his boyfriend gets annoyed at him, because his first instinct is to fire right back, but the last time he did that, they had a major fight and didn’t communicate for a week – and a similar thing happened when the opposite occurred, Dylan snapping back at Owen’s anger instead.

“I don’t…” he trails off with no idea of where he’d been planning to go with that sentence. “That’s just what happens in matches.”

“Not normally, it isn’t!” Dylan exclaims. “You lot tore us apart! You _humiliated_ the lads out there, and don’t pretend it was anything else. And then you just expected me to be happy for you when I’ve got my own club loyalties as well. Just because I can’t play right now doesn’t mean I’m, like, magically Saracens’ number one supporter!”

Owen loses his patience.

“You want me to apologise for Saracens being better than Saints?” he spits back, knowing that this is not the way to go but unable to care right now; he was happy with that game, proud of what the team of achieved, and now Dylan’s just being bitter. “Oh, Dylan, I’m so sorry your club’s shit, but we just wanted to play our best rugby. You ever think that maybe we didn’t actually _care_ about what you lot thought?”

_That’s too far_. Guilt is bubbling in his abdomen even before Dylan replies, voice dark with rage and indignant hurt.

“You know what, Owen? Fuck you, and fuck Saracens. You can call me back when you’ve got off your fucking high horse.”

Owen’s left, staring at the opposite wall and feeling far more sober than he’d like to right now – though he can’t help but wish that this feeling had come earlier, when he needed to control his speech.

_No_.

Dylan’s just as out of line as he is. He shouldn’t have said those things, he knows, but Dylan can’t expect him not to be happy, not to try to play his best rugby for the boys he shares the Sarries shirt with, not to want to share his success with his boyfriend when the team’s finally regaining its old – if not yet its best – form.

But shit, that was abrupt, and he should have apologised, should have cut Dylan off and said he was sorry before his boyfriend could hang up on him. He can’t call back now. That just seems desperate – especially if Dylan doesn’t answer.

They’re not on a high horse; Dylan should know by now that they’re not arrogant. They just take pride in each other, and that goes a long way further than any of the other clubs seem to appreciate. People can call them obnoxious arrogant, or whatever else they want. They can criticise their celebrations, their finances, their supposed inconsistency. Owen doesn’t care. His teammates are his friends, prized by him above anyone else, and he’s as proud of them as they are of him, as desperate to do well for this club as the rest of them.

He didn’t expect Dylan to… support Saracens, though. Just… be happy for Owen? Owen understands that it stings, but Dylan honestly seemed more cordial talking to Owen’s Dad at the end of the Six Nations than he did on the phone just now – and that hurts a surprising amount. Certainly, more than Owen expected.

Sighing, he closes his eyes and draws his knees into his chest, dropping his phone on the cushion beside him. He doesn’t want to apologise, because he’s not the only one who was out of line, and he isn’t about to give up his pride to go crawling back to Dylan and beg forgiveness – which is a little over-the-top, now he thinks about it, but he’s drunk.

On that note, probably best to leave any decisions on how to deal with this until the morning.

_Brad might know what to do_.

 

When Owen wakes up, he checks his phone automatically for a message from Dylan. There’s nothing. Closing his eyes on the mild heat that sparks to life in them, he attempts to swallow down the lump in his throat and pretend that he hasn’t fucked up. Everything will be fine. Dylan will call him or text him or something, and they’ll laugh it off like normal, shove it to the side and forget about it until it next comes up.

Who is he kidding? They’re both too proud to make the first move. Owen isn’t backing down, especially not when Dylan’s insulted Sarries, and Dylan won’t be making any initial attempts to reconcile when Owen’s torn into Saints as well. They’re stuck, and he doesn’t see a way out of this.

He checks his phone through the entire day anyway, holding his breath for something from Dylan (anything, he doesn’t care, though he’d like to tell himself that he’ll only accept an apology). Nothing comes.

Of course it doesn’t.

He goes to bed that night feeling unusually down for the day after a win that big. He blames Dylan for it. This is what he gets for letting a relationship get in the way of his rugby.

If only he could bring himself to regret it more.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, I think this one's a little bit longer...?  
> I sort of realised that I should start thinking about whether any of these need warnings. I don't think they do, but I guess Owen has some borderline internalised homophobia...? Nothing majorly explicit, though. Obviously, this deals with the aftermath of last chapter as well as the announcement that Dylan wouldn't be joining England in SA, so I'd say there's a fair amount of angst, but a good lot of comfort to go alongside it. Going with the general idea that Owen's not the best at communicating personal emotions with people - based off numerous interviews, his insane level of dedication to the game, his relationship with refs and comments from past and present teammates and coaches. If anyone disagrees, I'd be interested in knowing your thoughts?  
> Also, was anyone else really happy to see Owen and Dylan on the bench this weekend? They need their rest, Owen especially, but whenever I mentioned how excited I was to see Owen on the bench to my teammates, all I got was 'I thought you liked him?'  
> Oh well. At least everyone now knows that if they want to beat England, they just have to put Owen out of action... I mean, send one of their forwards in for a tackle that causes a serious injury... As long as they get a yellow card maximum for it, that might be the game won.  
> Aaaanyway! Hope you enjoy!

Two days with no contact from Dylan, and Owen’s pride gives way just a little. He’s not quite at the point of going back to his boyfriend on his knees to admit that what he said was _way_ too far, but he’s close. Close enough to talk to someone else about it. He misses Dylan – has grown incredibly used to the older man’s presence in his life, and even one day’s absence was difficult, let alone two.

Several times, he’s found himself on the verge of calling, thumb hovering over Dylan’s number as he debates pride versus his need for Dylan. Pride has barely scraped through each time – or maybe it’s the fear of being outright rejected. Maybe both. Either way, he needs to do something about it.

“Brad,” he mutters under his breath after training is over, leaning in to get as close to his Captain’s ear as possible. “I need some help.”

Brad eyes him, immediately surprised, and Owen tries not to shift awkwardly. He doesn’t like to admit that he needs help unless it’s rugby-related – in which case, the game comes before his pride – so he’s not surprised by the look Brad gives him, but it’s still embarrassing.

“What’s wrong?” his friend replies in a low tone, luckily both noting and respecting Owen’s desire to keep this conversation private.

Owen stares at the floor, setting his jaw. He doesn’t really want to look Brad in the eye for this; the conversation will be awkward enough without maintaining eye-contact.

“I had an argument with Dylan,” he admits. “I… don’t think we’re going to be talking for a while.”

“The fuck you aren’t!” Brad exclaims, so quickly and immediately that Owen can only blink at him. “Faz, mate… We’re sorting this.”

Brad sounds strangely serious – almost determined, the glint in his eyes steely as he turns to fix Owen with a solid stare. Owen’s not sure what to make of his teammate’s investment in his relationship – especially a relationship that, so far, only seems to have served as amusement for Brad. It’s a little disturbing, if he’s honest, but he doesn’t really care, because he’s more relieved that it means Brad is going to help him.

Loz peers at them in interest, eyes sparking with mischief.

“What’s Faz done this time?”

“What do you mean, this time?” Owen asks, affronted, but Brad ignores him, rolling his eyes at Loz.

“Boyfriend troubles.”

Loz perks up all the more, clearly desperate for more details as Maro and Kruiso glance over as well. Owen groans, burying his head in his hands, and Brad takes pity on him, wrapping an arm around his shoulder and pulling around to face away from the rest of the lads.

“Private conversation, boys, sorry!” the Captain calls over his shoulder, then lowers his voice. “What _did_ you do?”

“It wasn’t just me,” Owen has to defend himself. “He was going on about how we didn’t have to score nine tries, how we were just trying to humiliate them and didn’t care about how anyone else felt, and apparently I didn’t care that he has his own loyalties to Saints, and just because he’s not playing doesn’t mean he’s just going to support me and Sarries over them…”

Brad sighs and grimaces – sympathetic, to Owen’s relief – then taps Owen’s shoulder.

“And what did you say?”

Guiltily, Owen looks away. He knows he was out of line, but he really doesn’t want to admit it.

“I tried not to get annoyed, but he just wouldn’t listen…” he trails off at Brad’s unimpressed look. “I just… I said I was sorry that we’re better than Saints, alright? And that we didn’t care what they thought.”

To Brad’s credit, the older man only half-winces; it doesn’t make Owen feel any better. Swallowing back the lump in his throat, he tries to ignore the way his heart drops.

“What did he say?” Brad asks after a few seconds of silence – during which, Owen is pretty sure that they were both contemplating how screwed he is.

The words have been stuck in Owen’s head ever since the phone call, circling round and round, and he doesn’t even have to think.

“Fuck you and fuck Saracens, you can call me back when you’ve got off your fucking high horse,” he recalls, at exactly the same moment as the area around them falls silent.

“Ouch,” Sanjay winces. “And that was your boyfriend?”

Miserably, Owen turns and nods. Loz lets out a low whistle, reaching out to pat his shoulder, and Owen finds himself scrubbing at his eyes, suddenly tired.

“What the fuck did you say to make him say that?” Jinx asks, sounding almost impressed.

Owen simply shrugs, glancing over at Brad again, who pulls a face.

“None of you need to know that, but does anyone have any suggestions? I would point out that Faz isn’t _entirely_ to blame here…”

“Thanks,” Owen huffs. “Because that’ll mean fuck all to D – him…”

Brad rolls his eyes.

“Well, that’s your fault for dating him, mate. Should’ve gone for someone who _doesn’t_ match your temper.”

 

Owen thinks about Brad’s words for the entire journey home, running them over and over in his head. _Should’ve gone for someone who doesn’t match your temper._

Is Brad suggesting that him and Dylan aren’t a good fit? …Is he right? Their arguments, it’s true, get fierce very quickly, and Owen knows that neither of them are very good at expressing affection – at least, he isn’t. Maybe Dylan just doesn’t…?

That’s not a good thing to think, so he shakes the idea away. As bad as their fights get, he likes being with Dylan, enjoys the comfort he finds in his boyfriend’s presence – let alone his arms – and the sex is fucking incredible. Not that their relationship is entirely centred around that, but Dylan has… skills, and they’ve got matching appetites most of the time. The first time they see each other when both their teams have won is always explosive, to say the least.

It really isn’t just that, though. Owen likes spending time with Dylan, likes talking with him – about rugby, about whatever’s going on in the rest of the world, about everything and nothing and all the inconsequential little pieces of their lives that fall in between. He doesn’t want to lose that, doesn’t want to lose Dylan; he thinks he’s finally at the point where he’ll do anything to sort this out. One big fight can’t be the end of them, can it?

Drumming his fingers on the steering wheel, Owen sighs and pulls into his driveway, then blinks as he spots the car already parked there.

_What’s Dylan doing here?_

Dylan’s got a concussion. He shouldn’t be driving down to see Owen – wouldn’t surely, unless he feels that there’s no other choice. He’s already refused to come to see Owen, too, and that was _before_ Owen screwed up.

There’s a small chance that this is good, but the main feeling that curls in Owen’s chest is dread. Dylan’s here mere days after a bad – short, but pretty horrible – fight, when they haven’t spoken to each other since, and with a sudden spark of horror, Owen realises that there’s a sickening explanation for his boyfriend’s presence here in Harpenden, especially having just refused to come and visit Owen.

Dylan just doesn’t want to break up over text.

He knows he shouldn’t jump to conclusions, though, so he tries to calm his beating heart as he climbs out of his car and makes his way up to the front door. It’s just that he can’t stop the creeping suspicions…

Dylan shouldn’t have driven here. He’s still got a concussion; he should have taken the train if he wanted to come south without asking Owen to drive him. He’s hardly about to ask Owen after their fight, though, and certainly wouldn’t want Owen to drive him back after a break-up. Taking public transport would probably also be a bad idea after ending a relationship that’s been going for over four months.

  _Shit_ , he doesn’t want to do this. Can he just hide further down the road in his car until Dylan leaves?

It’s too late for that, because the door opens before he reaches it, Dylan staring out at him. Owen almost wishes that he never gave Dylan a spare key, but… Too many good things have come of it to regret that choice, even now.

“Owen,” the older man greets stiffly, stepping aside, and Owen ducks his head as he enters, trying to make it look like a natural movement rather than the avoidance of Dylan’s gaze that it is.

Behind him, Dylan closes the door, and Owen suddenly realises that Dylan is, technically, the guest here.

“Do you… want tea or anything?” he offers cautiously, in the interest of, if nothing else, being a good host.

“I’m fine.”

“Right,” Owen takes a deep breath, pushing his lungs against the iron bars that have taken the place of his ribs; he needs time to compose himself. “Um, if you go through to the living room, I’ll be with you in a – in a moment.”

Dylan doesn’t move. Swallowing, Owen finds himself unable to meet his boyfriend’s eyes when he finally lifts his own from the floor, even as his heartrate picks up further, thudding deep inside his chest and yet seemingly fighting closer to the surface with every thump.

“I’d rather not wait,” Dylan tells him, and Owen can’t get rid of the lump that grows in the base of his throat, even as his cheeks start to prickle with fire.

He should say something. He _needs_ to say something, because Dylan’s surely about to break up with him. That’s the only thing he can think of, but he’s never been good at talking under pressure and now words have escaped him, no matter how desperately he searches; even if he had something to say, he doesn’t think he’d be able to move his lips to get it out.

Blinking rapidly, he jerks his head in a nod and waits for the words that he’s been dreading, in the back of his mind, since their relationship first started.

“Look, Owen… I’m not going to lie, alright?” Dylan sighs and Owen thinks, _This is it_. “You crossed a line the other day.”

Owen knows that. He should have apologised immediately, but to be honest, he was too surprised by what he’d just said to think about saying sorry before the line went dead.

“I – I know,” he manages finally, and he’s never before hated how bad he can be at speaking off the pitch – at least, not as much as he does in this moment – but now he just needs his tongue to steady itself. “Dyl, I – Dylan –”

“Just listen, yeah?” Dylan tells him, tone harsh, and Owen falls silent, trying in vain to keep back the stinging behind his eyelids. “Owen, I just… Obviously, something isn’t working with this.”

Right. Something isn’t working. That’s a nice way of putting it, isn’t it? Only it’s not, because it’s the same thing that failing clubs say as they struggle to pull their form back together, and they never really seem to manage it in time to salvage their pride, if anything at all. It should suggest that what that something _is_ will be looked at. It never is.

Owen doesn’t want to cry in front of Dylan, he really doesn’t. Crying just isn’t something he does (he might be gay, but he’s not, well, you know…), and in front of Dylan… He can’t think of anything worse – other than the fact that Dylan’s breaking up with him, but that seems to be an inevitable fact now. Crying is about the only thing that could make it all worse. It’s either that or getting angry about it all, though, and he already tried that one, knows how badly it went down and doesn’t want to do it again. He can’t stop the slight touch of moisture welling in his eyes, at any rate, so he lifts an arm and drags it over his face as quickly as he can.

“Shit, that sounds like…” Dylan mutters, and Owen hears him inhale loudly. “What I meant to say is that we really need to talk about this. I know I was out of line as well, alright? We both said things we shouldn’t have, and I don’t want that to be the way we go, you get me?”

Owen’s mind is still swimming with Brad’s words, and now Dylan is here, about to break up with him, and he can’t even get his fucking composure together. His vision is beginning to blur with the knowledge of how helpless he is to stop it – he should have done something yesterday, or the day before, but he didn’t because he’s a _fucking idiot_ – and Dylan’s voice feels like it’s coming from underwater, so he simply shakes his head. He doesn’t understand what Dylan’s saying at all. (Or, more truthfully, he’s pretty certain he does, but he doesn’t want to acknowledge it. He’s pretty sure he’d rather cling to whatever they can salvage than cut it off semi-cleanly now.)

This is the worst possible time to realise how much Dylan means to him – how much he doesn’t want to lose what they’ve got – and he needs to work out how to say this to Dylan, how to convince him to give them another chance, but searching for words is like scrabbling for a needle in a darkened room. His chest is tightening, shortening his breath, and he needs to get everything back under control and stop treating this like some sort of disaster movie.

Why is he reacting like this? It’s pathetic. In all honesty, he’s ashamed of himself.

This is what he gets for trying to have a long-term relationship. They _never_ work out, because they get in the way of the game, and Owen’s not about to sacrifice rugby for anything or anyone. It was fucking ridiculous to even think that dating a player from an opposing club might _ever_ have a chance of working, even disregarding his awful track record when it comes to men.

Never mind that he clearly has no idea how to talk to people who aren’t already on his side. It’s the reason why he struggles with Captaincy, and the reason why he’ll never manage a stable relationship for more than a handful of months.

“Right, I’ll try to find a different way to say it… Faz, you alright, mate?”

Finally, Owen finds the words he’s been searching for this entire time, even as his ribs squeeze inwards and all the air in his lungs rushes out.

“I’m sorry for saying that,” he blurts out, then has to suck back in the breath he’s lost, tripping over his own tongue as he tries to put everything in the right order and _make_ Dylan hear what he needs to say. “Shit, Dyl, I didn’t – I swear, I didn’t mean it…”

That’s not enough, though. That doesn’t mean anything if Dylan’s already made his mind up, so he needs to convince Dylan to go back on that.

“Just – Just give us another go…” he scrambles for more words, but can’t find anything else to offer.

It’s still not going to be enough, though, and now he’s just made a fool out of himself. The thought hurts, because he might be an idiot for wanting this, but he _does_ want it, more than he can explain. Maybe it’ll never work, but he wants so badly to _try_ , and then try again if they fail the first time.

“What?” Dylan’s voice fills with confusion. “No! I’m not breaking up with you. Why would you – Shit, I’m doing this really badly…”

Owen can’t keep up as Dylan reaches for him, simultaneously tugging him closer and pressing him back against the wall, tilting his head up to press their lips together. He’s lost, not quite able to comprehend what’s happening, not sure how to process this confusing influx of emotions.

 _Dylan doesn’t want to break up with him_.

Relief bursts inside him, and he doesn’t quite feel in control of his own actions as he pulls Dylan closer still; he’s not letting go again, if he can help it. This has been too dangerous, a fall over the edge too near at hand, and he doesn’t plan on this ever happening again. He’s not going to risk losing Dylan.

Not for anything.

“We need to talk,” Dylan whispers reluctantly, pulling back as he shifts his hand to run a thumb along Owen’s jaw. “I don’t want this to happen again, yeah?”

Owen nods in agreement but doesn’t let go, keeping Dylan pressed tightly against him.

“I was just… angry,” he confesses in return. “I didn’t mean what I said. I just…”

He flounders for how to explain it for a moment, unsure how to vocalise the feelings behind his call at the weekend.

“I didn’t call to celebrate with you. Not really.”

Dylan squints at him, confused.

“You didn’t?”

Incredulous, Owen can only stare back, because he may have said it just now, but he still expected Dylan to already know _that_ , at least. He’s not an idiot; he knows Dylan wouldn’t want to celebrate a loss with him, even if it is a win for Owen. (Maybe, just maybe, be a little bit happy for _him_ , if not for the team or the result, though…)

“Of course I didn’t!” he frowns eventually, affronted. “I was happy, and I – I just wanted to hear your voice.”

He regrets saying it immediately, because it’s by far the most heartfelt thing he’s ever said to Dylan that hasn’t come out mid-argument, and it’s very clearly a cross into territory that neither of them are very comfortable in. They don’t say things like that. Emotions are certainly not their strongest point, either as individuals or as a couple.

When Dylan doesn’t reply, he shifts awkwardly, lamenting his words all the more. _Who the fuck says that they just wanted to hear someone’s voice?_

“Dylan, I just – Look, ignore what I just said, alright? Forget it.”

“OK…” Dylan exhales a slow breath. “I think we really need to talk. We clearly don’t communicate well enough. I… I don’t have a _problem_ with you saying that, Faz. That’s… Well, I’m just honestly not sure how to respond…”

Why is Dylan so much better at this than Owen? How does he seem to know what to say – and how to say it clearly, simply? Owen just keeps putting his foot in his mouth – always has done, both on and off the pitch – but here Dylan is, all calm and collected… and that’s part of what Owen loves about him.

 _Shit_.

Thinking about it, Owen’s known for at least a month that he loves Dylan. He just… hasn’t really acknowledged it. At all. In any way. Even in his head.

“Owen?” Dylan frowns in concern. “Are you alright?”

“I’m fine,” Owen shakes his head, bites his lip, and tries to find a suitable excuse. “It’s… I just _really_ don’t want to break up with you. Ever.”

And there he goes again, like a fucking idiot. How is that _any_ better? Maybe it would have been alright if he hadn’t added on that ‘ever’, but…

He’s ruined it, now, and Dylan’s just gaping back at him, shock written across the older man’s face. Cheeks, neck and ears all flaming, Owen drops his head to the first available hiding place: Dylan’s shoulder. He shouldn’t have said that, shouldn’t have rocked the boat, but somehow, he can’t find it in himself to be too anxious about Dylan’s reaction, because his boyfriend hasn’t stepped away and, at the end of the day, it’s the truth. Dylan probably deserves to know that.

Coughing, Dylan clears his throat, and finally, his lips quirk with amusement.

“Owen… Faz… I don’t want to break up with you either, mate? I thought we already established that.”

 

The spring in Owen’s step throughout training is perhaps unintentional, but he doesn’t really feel the need to rid himself of it. The mere memory of being able to share his triumph with Dylan over the weekend is enough to make his chest buzz with warmth, secure in the knowledge that this relationship really is mutual: that they’re both invested in it. (And, of course, last night was… one to remember, but Owen thinks it might be best not to dwell on that, because he still needs to get changed after training, and he’d rather that certain _things_ didn’t become a little too… visible.)

Unfortunately, he forgets about something else that’s very visible with nothing covering it – and that _something else_ catches Loz’s eyes as soon as he removes his shirt.

“You made up with the boyfriend, then, Faz?” he calls, grinning as he nods at Owen’s chest, and Owen follows his gaze to flush almost instantly.

Dylan was excited over the weekend, and Owen doesn’t blame him; winning is good, but winning when you aren’t expected to… That’s something special. It’s no surprise, really, that his chest and shoulders are littered with various marks – he’s just grateful that Dylan left his neck alone – and while it felt good at the time, he knows that no one in this room is going to let him get away without a thorough ribbing.

Shrugging in answer to Loz’s question, he ducks his head to hide the flame that lights in his cheeks and turns to start getting dressed; the quicker he gets changed, the sooner he can get out of here and the less teasing he’ll have to endure.

“Oh, come on…” Loz complains. “Can’t you just tell us a little bit about him? We’ve never even _met_ him, Faz.”

“Good,” Owen retorts. “You won’t scare him off.”

Jamie makes a noise of mock-outrage, and Owen casts his eyes up to the ceiling, searching for any sort of respite. Of course all the lads are listening…

“Can’t you just bring him along to _one_ match?”

For a moment, Owen allows himself to imagine a scenario in which his teammates all know about him and Dylan – in which _everyone_ knows about him and Dylan – and he’s free to celebrate with his boyfriend when they next win the Premiership (and they _will_ win it again: they had a bad defeat last season and a rocky midwinter, but they’re back and they’re firing, and they’re ready to take this to the top). He imagines inviting Dylan along to go out with the lads, and he can almost see it… but Dylan isn’t out to _anyone_ – well, other than Owen, Eddie and Brad, and the odd anonymous bloke – and Owen’s not about to pressure him out of his comfort zone for the sake of a brief, quaint fantasy.

“No,” he tells them stiffly, trying not to sound too defensive. “He’s not really out to anyone, so… No.”

Internally, he thanks every higher power there is that Saracens are such an accepting group of men, because all he gets in reply is a handful of nods and a few considering frowns, then Alex G shrugs.

“Alright,” the older man says, turning back to continue his paused conversation with Brad – who’s been watching carefully throughout the short exchange – and that’s the end of that.

Still, the thought follows Owen home, echoing his footsteps as he wanders his kitchen, fixing himself a post-training meal, and he can’t quite shake away the feeling that… well, _it’d be nice_.

Dylan’s back in Northampton, resting and sometimes working with Saints even if he isn’t recovered enough to train, and Owen doesn’t really want to mention it over the phone – isn’t sure he wants to bring it up at all, in case it makes Dylan uncomfortable – but the idea just won’t leave him alone. It doesn’t have to be everyone – just Saracens. They’ve been good to Owen; they’ll be good to Dylan as well. They’re as supportive as a group of lads can get – which is to say, _very_ – and the idea of not having to hide and lie to this close group of friends is more than appealing.

In the end, when the conversation turns to their days, he brings it up.

“It’s just an idea,” he adds hurriedly after he’s finished explaining the situation. “And it definitely doesn’t have to be now. I just – I thought I’d mention it.”

“Yeah,” Dylan agrees calmly, and Owen relaxes. “I get that you’re close to them, and you don’t want to hide forever – I don’t either. I’m just… I don’t want anyone to know right now.”

Owen won’t deny that there’s a small part of him that’s disappointed, but it’s what he expected and he’s not about to push Dylan for more. It’s not like it’s _him_ that Dylan’s keeping secret; it’s the whole sexuality thing.

“Someday, though, yeah?” he asks nonetheless, and Dylan huffs out a small laugh.

“Yeah. Someday. I’ve got to go now, so… Call me tomorrow?”

The words that Owen wants to say are nudging at the tip of his tongue, three simple words that he wants his boyfriend to know but definitely isn’t ready to admit aloud.

“Of course,” he replies, and the smile that touches at his lips is quiet, fond.

 

Owen’s heart sinks when he hears the news, and a single thought flashes through his mind before his boyfriend even finishes talking: _What if Dylan doesn’t recover from this?_

He’s not sure what he’ll do if this turns out to have done Dylan really bad damage. He knows what concussions can do – has been worrying about Dylan’s condition for the last month as it is – and if this is going to threaten Dylan’s wellbeing… Needless to say, Owen will be advocating Dylan’s early retirement if severe permanent injury looks to have taken place.

And that’s the other problem right there: Owen doesn’t know how Dylan would react to being separated from the sport they both love so soon, especially the year before a World Cup – a World Cup that Dylan is supposed to captain England through. Certainly, his boyfriend wouldn’t take such advice lying down.

“I’m taking the summer off,” Dylan mumbles, and he sounds so dejected that Owen’s heart just sinks more. “And then I’ll work myself back up next season.”

 _This isn’t fair_ , Owen thinks, though he doesn’t say it aloud – doesn’t think Dylan would particularly appreciate hearing that.

“Do you want me to come over?” he asks instead, because they’ve got the weekend off while the Champions Cup semi-finals take place (a thought that barely even stings anymore, now that they have their sights set firmly and solely back on the Premiership).

“I mean…” Dylan hesitates, and Owen makes the decision for him.

“I’ll be there as soon as I can.”

As much as Owen tries to concentrate on the road, his hands won’t keep still on the wheel, his leg bouncing at every red light. Restless energy burns under his skin, a strange sort of indignation on Dylan’s behalf that mixes with worry and frustration and leaves him antsy. This isn’t fair, he knows it isn’t, but he doesn’t know what to do about it. There’s no referee to whom he can appeal this decision, no way to fix this like he normally would, from the kicking tee or over the try-line or even with a simple look… This is out of his control, and he doesn’t like it.

Still, when he actually gets to Dylan’s house, he finds himself hesitating outside the front door, suddenly not sure what he can _really_ say or do that will comfort his boyfriend in any way. He knocks regardless, waiting anxiously for Dylan to open the door – and then all concerns about how to help Dylan disappear as he catches sight of the man in question.

Dylan looks wrecked.

It’s all he can do to wait until they’re safely out of sight, the door closed behind him, before he wraps his arms around his boyfriend. There’s no words he can offer: nothing he can say to make the worry and the frustration go away. All he can give is wordless understanding.

Dylan stands stiff for several seconds, just long enough that Owen considers pulling away to give him some space – and then the older man’s arms rise to encircle his waist, and the tension in Dylan’s body releases in one giant breath of defeat. Owen can feel the hurt, almost as if it has become tangible, thickening the air in the hallway with its bitterness.

Dylan’s worked hard – so ridiculously hard – for the team, for his career, for them to have such success as they’ve had the last two years, and now he’s out of the game when the team’s beginning to look like it’s teetering, right when it needs his leadership more than ever. Owen can’t even imagine how terrible that must feel, but he doesn’t need to. He just needs to support Dylan and remind his boyfriend that this doesn’t mean that everything is over.

It’s just… It might be, and that’s the horrible truth of the matter. If Dylan doesn’t recover from this well, that’s the end of his career. Even if he does, he might have to fight his way back into the squad, and that’s not a good thing to have to do so close to the World Cup.

In the end, Owen doesn’t know how long they stand there. He thinks Dylan almost moves away several times, and he thinks about it once or twice, but neither of them actually does. They don’t show weakness to each other that much – and maybe they should, but that’s something to think about at another time – and if Dylan’s feeling so bad that he doesn’t care about that, Owen’s going to comfort him as long as he needs it. At some point, though – eventually – they make it to the kitchen, and Owen shoves Dylan into a seat to make them both coffee; he’s been here often enough to know his way around the place, and of course he’s got Dylan’s drink preferences memorised (though admittedly, decaf isn’t exactly a preference, just better for concussion recovery).

He thinks he’s aware of Dylan’s eyes tracking him as he moves about the place, but neither of them says a word until he sits down across from his boyfriend, two steaming mugs on the counter between them.

“You’re going to listen to the advice and rest, aren’t you?” he checks finally, still idly stirring his drink, though his eyes fix on Dylan’s face the entire time.

“Of course!” Dylan sounds – and looks – affronted by the question, which Owen guesses is fair, but he deflates in seconds. “Yeah… No rugby from now until the end of the summer, at least.”

Owen watches his boyfriend’s gaze drop, following it down to Dylan’s hand where it keeps clenching and unclenching on the table-top. Without thinking, he reaches out and takes the hand, stilling it gently before he realises what he’s done. When he does notice, he almost removes his hand, but decides against it and stiffens his resolve instead, squeezing Dylan’s fingers.

“Good,” he murmurs, unwilling to raise his voice in the otherwise silent room. “Next year, I want to stand with you while you lift the Six Nations trophy. And the World Cup, too.”

Dylan huffs out something of a chuckle, gripping Owen’s hand in return.

“Sounds good,” he replies, and his voice is only slightly thick.

For a moment longer, Owen stares at their joined hands. Now seems as good a time as any for what he wants to say, but he bites his lip and stays silent. Dylan shouldn’t be worrying about anything other than his concussion, which is clearly more serious than they both realised. In fact, he shouldn’t be stressing about anything at all, so Owen’s hardly about to unload something so… meaningful on him.


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Er... So, it's been a while...? But it's Christmas soon, so that'll hopefully give me some time, as long as I don't spend it like I have been my abnormally frequent free evening, hiding from gender dysphoria in my room, like that could *ever* possibly work. I'm a functional human being, I promise. 
> 
> Just thought I'd mention: if there's anything you'd like to see, either any particular moments that you'd like to see fitted into this (from the November Tests, for example) or any particular plot points - even if they don't fit into this, I could have a look... Maybe even if they're not Dylan/Owen specific. I'm sort of stuck for ideas - still got a fair amount of material left for this one, rest assured, but I'm very bad at only writing ONE thing. Also, if anyone wants to chat, y'know... I don't bite unless misgendered, or if you dare say that Danny Cipriani is a better fly-half than Owen because he's got that 'attacking flair'...
> 
> Anyway, Owen's been a bit of a naughty boy, hasn't he? First those tackles during the autumn, and then that *INSANE* offload to Alex Goode today. Oh. My. God. Nerve-wracking game at times, too. Just... going back to the whole trans thing... Does anyone else ever find that he seems a bit like a trans guy? Like, the voice just has something to it, and the way he sits... Idk. Maybe I'm just trying to make myself feel better.
> 
> Enough of the rambling! Quite a nice chapter today, I think? Quite sweet at times, I'd like to say (but don't worry, I'm just lulling you into a false sense of security. Being gay is NEVER that easy - that got pessimistic quickly). A bit short, maybe? I'm losing the ability to tell what is and isn't short, in all honesty, it's been so long. Lots of dialogue at points, and our favourite England captains take a major step or two.
> 
> (Sorry if I'm coming across as a bit mad today - I don't really know what's wrong with me, but I only have three lessons left until 6th Form breaks up for Xmas and it's 23:58. I think I'm entitled to a little insanity.)

“I’ve been thinking,” Dylan breaks the comfortable quiet – not silence, not when they’re both still breathing a little heavily, and Owen can hear Dylan’s heartbeat mere inches from his ear – in a soft tone, fingers tracing circles on Owen’s shoulder.

“Mm?” Owen looks up at him, fighting back the smile that tugs at his lips. “Bit worrying, that.”

Dylan flicks him, and he pulls a disgruntled face, scrunching his nose up a little, but doesn’t bother to respond in kind.

“That’s my line,” Dylan tells him. “Anyway, you want to know what I’ve been thinking about, or should I just keep that to myself?”

“Sorry,” Owen apologises, but he can’t stop the grin that spreads across his face anymore.

Dylan spots the expression and frowns, then ruins it instantly by ducking his head for a quick kiss. (Owen can’t find it in himself to mind.)

“Maybe it would be nice to come along to watch the Wasps match. Cheer you on from the stands.”

“You need to avoid loud places,” Owen tells him automatically, even as his heart starts to thump a little harder.

The idea of Dylan coming to a game to support him in person… It warms his chest in a way he can’t quite identify, this little hint of domesticity that, now that Dylan’s mentioned it, he can’t shake properly.

“Well, it’s not like I could _actually_ do it,” Dylan huffs, rolling his eyes. “People would find it a bit strange, I think. Just… maybe, if more people knew, I could. Next year, possibly.”

“Next year, you might have your own semi,” Owen points out, but Dylan doesn’t even bother to reply: just stares at him. “…Are you thinking of coming out?”

There. He’s asked. Now the ball’s back in Dylan’s court, which is good, because Owen has no idea where this conversation should be going or how he should be handling it. Yes, the idea of Dylan openly supporting him at a club match is undeniably appealing, but that’s never going to happen as long as they don’t want to explain _why_ Dylan’s come along.

“I don’t know,” Dylan admits. “I just… Part of me thinks that it’s no one else’s business, but that shouldn’t mean that we have to… _hide_ our relationship. It’s just that, well…”

Owen knows Dylan more than well enough to know what his boyfriend’s not saying: Dylan’s not sure he wants to come out, still. It’s a big step, going from two people knowing – more out of necessity than anything else – to who-even-knows how many more, especially for someone who has never defined his sexuality out loud. Owen doesn’t think that Dylan even has a grasp of it in his head.

“It would be nice to be able to do things in public,” he admits, because it’s been in the back of his mind for a while that, regardless of rugby commitments and supporting each other and going to club events, he wants to go on a normal date with Dylan: see a movie, go to the beach, eat out at a restaurant, or just anything that most people do. Something quiet.

Something nice.

“You shouldn’t do, like, anything you’re not comfortable with,” he adds hurriedly, just to be sure. “You don’t have to explain yourself to anyone.”

Dylan tugs him a little closer.

“I know. We can talk about this later, though…”

 _That_ , Owen decides as their lips meet once more, Dylan pulling at him insistently until he obligingly straddles his boyfriend’s hips, _is a good idea._

He can definitely put the coming out conversation on pause for a little while longer. Yes. Yes, he most certainly can…

 

“Fuck it,” is the first thing Owen hears when he gets home, buzzing with the triumph of the win against Wasps, and for a second, he can only squint in confusion. “I’m coming to watch you in the final.”

Blinking, he cocks his head to the side – then the realisation of what Dylan’s just said hits him, and he can’t stop the grin that spreads across his face. _Dylan’s coming to watch him –_

“Really?”

“Already got a ticket,” Dylan winks at him. “You can’t stop me.”

Owen doesn’t deem that worthy of a verbal reply, but it’s certainly deserving of a kiss. An intense kiss. Maybe a bit too intense, because they’re still standing on the doorstep; luckily, Dylan still has enough sense for the two of them as he pulls Owen into the house and kicks the door shut. The panels of the door dig into Owen’s back as Dylan pushes him up against it, but he can’t bring himself to care, just as he doubts his boyfriend is bothered about the fingers digging into one hip and the other shoulder.

“You should probably tell Sarries beforehand,” Dylan whispers hoarsely when they finally break apart for more than a quick breath. “We’ve kept them waiting long enough.”

Owen snorts under his breath.

“And Dad,” he agrees. “Later?”

Dylan’s answering grin is all he needs to lean back in, closing the gap once more to reunite with the searing heat that always seems to radiate from Dylan: a warmth that Owen isn’t sure he can entirely put down to Dylan’s muscle mass.

Eventually, he does get around to calling his parents. He’s been meaning to talk to his family since they won the semi, but the team celebrations came first, and then Dylan… distracted him.

“Congratulations!” is the first thing he hears from his mum, and he doesn’t bother to fight his smile. “Good to _finally_ hear from you!”

Sheepishly, Owen rubs at the back of his neck and resists the urge to start pacing; maybe he shouldn’t have stood up to make this call. Dylan watches him from the bed, and with a sigh, he turns and collapses back onto the mattress, settling into Dylan’s side and trying to ignore the fingers that immediately start to run up and down his arm.

“Sorry,” he bites his lip. “I was… celebrating.”

His mum huffs, and he decides that now’s as good a time as any, so before she can say anything, he keeps talking.

“With – With someone else.”

Dylan’s hand stills for a second, but picks up its light tracing when Owen looks at him to check that he’s alright with this.

“With…? Owen, have you – Is there a boyfriend you haven’t told us about?”

Rolling his eyes, Owen wonders if his mum doesn’t know him a little too well, given that she jumps to that conclusion so immediately.

“Yeah,” he rushes out before he can lose his nerve and winces at the squeal of excitement that hits his eardrum.

“Oh, Owen! I – Yes, Andy, I _know_ you said so, you don’t have to – alright, well… Sorry, Owen. Is he… anyone we know? I’m _asking_ him, Andy, for god’s sake!”

 _For fuck’s sake, his parents are insane…_ Owen bites back a snort and nods in reply to Dylan’s raised eyebrow, offering a thumbs-up. Dylan returns the gesture with an encouraging smile, and Owen takes a deep breath to answer the question.

“Yeah,” he admits. “Yeah, he is. Um… His name’s Dylan –”

“Dylan Hartley?” his mum asks in a hushed tone, cutting him off. “The England Captain…? Most of the time, at least…”

Owen grimaces at the reminder of Dylan’s recent concussion troubles but doesn’t protest. It’s true, after all, even if they both wish it wasn’t.

“Yeah,” he tells her instead, and it feels like an unnoticed weight, cliché as it sounds, has slipped off his shoulders. “Yeah, that’s him.”

Holding the receiver away from his mouth, he looks at Dylan.

“Do you want to talk to her?” he whispers. “She’ll talk your ear off, but…”

Amused, Dylan merely shakes his head and waves a hand. Owen shrugs, pressing the phone back to his ear, and makes a vaguely affirmative noise when his mum asks if he’s still listening. Beside him, Dylan drops a kiss to his bare shoulder, then stands to tidy their clothes from their varying positions around the bed.

 

“You know what day it is today?”

Owen looks at his phone, frowning in confusion, then up at his boyfriend, shrugging.

“21st of May… Why?”

Dylan rolls his eyes, grinning in fond amusement. Owen looks at the date again, then back to Dylan, utterly lost. Two days on from winning the semi-final against Wasps, his full focus is on the Premiership final, and he really can’t think of anything else that might be important right now. It’s not anyone’s birthday; his isn’t until September, Dylan’s was back in March…

He has no clue what Dylan’s on about.

“You know what happened six months ago?”

Desperately, Owen casts his mind back. What month was half a year ago? April, March, February…

“Autumn Tests…?” he frowns. “Would’ve been after… Oh, _shit_!”

It’s their six-month anniversary of… whatever the fuck they can call that mess of a conversation that got them together. Of course it is. Owen remembered their first, and their second, third (forgot their fourth, but so did Dylan, so…), and their fifth was a weekend off in the Premiership right after Saints beat Tigers, so they had some fun with that one, but he’s been so caught up in Sarries and the semi-final, followed immediately by the up-coming final, that this has completely snuck up on him.

“Sorry,” he mutters, cheeks lighting as he tries to work out how to get himself out of this without digging an even deeper hole. “I _did_ know, I just…”

“Forgot?”

Luckily, Dylan seems more amused than anything else. Owen nods guiltily; Dylan might not be particularly upset, but forgetting six months is a pretty terrible move as a boyfriend, he thinks. Certainly, it’s not one he’d like to attribute to himself.

“It’s fine,” Dylan assures him, tugging him closer to kiss him. “You’re focused on the final. Just win, and we’ll be fine. And you’ll be paying next time we go out mid-week in camp…”

Huffing, Owen pulls a face but doesn’t protest. He’ll take that, definitely – winning sounds like a good plan, at the very least.

“Oh, and…” Dylan meets his eyes, face falling into seriousness. “Don’t forget our one-year, yeah?”

Owen swallows as the implication of Dylan’s words hits him. Their relationship has been becoming more serious, more weighted, almost without him noticing; yes, it was always important, but he can’t say that, in December, he honestly thought that getting to a year would be more than optimistic. Call him a pessimist, but he doesn’t have the best history when it comes to relationships. Rugby does that to a man.

Now, though… _Not_ making it to a year seems to be the pessimistic approach. It’s not set in stone – nothing ever is – but it seems to be more of a realistic milestone with each passing day, and Owen wants it so badly.

“I won’t forget,” he promises. “And if there’s anything else you want to make up for it…”

Dylan’s grip on him tightens just a little.

“I might be able to think of a few things…” his boyfriend muses.

_Crisis averted._

 

Owen wraps an arm around his nearest teammate – not caring who – and lets himself smile freely, jumping with the rest of them as euphoria courses through him. He doesn’t care what anyone thinks of him, knows that no one here will judge him anyway, just the same as no one cares about their coaches going topless not five minutes ago.

They’ve won. They’re back on top, the champions once more, and nothing can take that away from them. It’s been a rough season – and _shit_ , ‘rough’ is an understatement – but they’re here, they’re happy, and they’re finally reaping the rewards for all their hard work. It’s everything he wants right now.

Except it’s not.

There’s just one thing he’s missing, one piece of the puzzle that’s left a gap: a vacancy that yawns ever wider as the team slowly, finally, starts to disperse from their big, united huddle – not that the atmosphere of jubilation drops at any moment.

Dylan picks up immediately when he calls.

“Shit, Owen… Congratulations!”

Owen laughs, chokes just a little on his own giddiness, and glances around the changing room to see if anyone has noticed. Brad glances at him briefly, raises a knowing eyebrow, and nods shortly with a quick gesture to the door. Biting his lip, he looks around to see if anyone else is paying particular attention, then mouths his thanks when he’s sure he’s safe

“Thanks,” he manages a moment later to Dylan, raising his voice to be heard over the team’s celebrations. “I just – I – thanks. Listen, do you want to come down? I can meet you outside the changing room…”

“Really?” Dylan asks him, tone echoing his apparent surprise. “You sure? I’d understand if you just want to celebrate with Sarries for now; I’ll see you later.”

Owen barely even hesitates.

“I want to see you,” he tells his boyfriend firmly. “If you want to come, that is…”

“Yeah, no, I – I do!” Dylan bursts out, quite abruptly. “I do. Just give me a few minutes… I’m on my way down…”

Owen waits patiently, phone still pressed to his ear. He’s barely aware that his smile has widened until Loz cocks his head, quirking an eyebrow.

“Who’re you talking to?” his clubmate mutters, nudging him and nodding to the mobile.

For a moment, Owen considers saying something besides the truth; he hasn’t yet told them all – not because he was too nervous, but more because it just never… came up, and he didn’t want to push the point – but almost immediately, he decides against it. They’re not hiding this, and even if they were, Owen doesn’t exactly have to tell Loz who it is.

“My boyfriend,” he smirks just a little at the way Loz gapes.

“Hmm?” Dylan asks.

“Just talking to Loz,” Owen tells him, then clarifies, “Alex Lozowski? Wanted to know who I’m talking to.”

Dylan makes a noise of wordless acknowledgement.

“You never did get round to telling them all, did you?”

“No…” Owen admits, sighing under his breath. “…D’you want to meet him now?”

For a moment, Dylan is silent. Owen waits, reaching out for a can of beer and cracking it open in the meantime. After a moment’s thought, he tucks his phone against his ear to reach for another can – for Dylan.

“Yeah, go on, then,” Dylan agrees. “I’m outside, by the way.”

Unable to stop a smile from breaking out on his face once more, Owen jerks his head towards the door and raises his eyebrows at Loz. Out of the corner of his vision, he can see Brad watching them, but the Captain merely grins in amusement when he glances over.

“Wait – What?” Loz looks from him to the door, and then back again. “Is he…?”

Trying to bite back his own amusement, Owen nods.

“You coming?” he asks, then turns his attention to Dylan while Loz nods enthusiastically, “I’m hanging up, now. Loz is coming with me.”

“Alright,” Dylan agrees, and Owen pulls the phone from his ear to lead Loz out of the room.

Dylan is waiting in the corridor when Owen steps out of the changing room, leaning against the wall with his arms folded and a small smile on his face – a smile that breaks out into a wide beam when he spots Owen. Pushing off the wall, the older man crosses the short space between them to wrap his arms around Owen and pull him in for a tight embrace, Owen returning the hug enthusiastically.

“Congratulations, Champion,” Dylan whispers, and Owen leans back just a little to kiss him, unable to hide his joy. “Someone’s happy.”

Breathless, Owen can only laugh. Tilting his head forward, he presses his forehead to Dylan’s and meets his boyfriend’s gaze. For a moment, they stand in silence, and then he remembers that Loz is there with them.

“Loz…” he turns to his clubmate, trying not to smirk at the expression on the younger man’s face. “I reckon you know Dylan already, right?”

Slowly, Loz nods. Owen can practically hear the cogs whirring in his brain, until finally, he opens his mouth.

“Didn’t he say, ‘fuck Saracens’ a month or two ago?”

Dylan stares at Owen with both eyebrows raised.

“You _told_ them about that fight?”

“Yes?” Owen shrugs sheepishly. “I asked Brad for advice, and the rest of them listened in, so…”

“What did he say?” Dylan asks curiously.

Huffing at the memory, Owen shakes his head.

“Nothing helpful. Just told me it was my fault for dating you.”

Dylan snorts at that, then lets Owen go to reach out a hand to Loz.

“Good to meet one of Owen’s teammates,” he says, straight-faced.

“Good to meet his boyfriend,” Loz returns, grinning, and glances over at Owen. “Am I the second person in the team to know, then?”

“Yeah,” Owen has to admit. “…And the third person outside of my family.”

“ _Really_?”

Alex seems so delighted by that idea that Owen has to roll his eyes, sharing an amused glance with Dylan.

“If Loz isn’t about to have a heart attack…” Brad peers out of the door, raising his voice to be heard over the noise that floods into the corridor. “We’re getting ready to go, soon. Faz, is your boyfriend coming out with us?”

Uncertain, Owen turns to Dylan.

“How’s your head?” he asks quietly, frowning when Dylan doesn’t answer immediately. “Go home, yeah? I’ll see you later.”

“You’ll see me tomorrow,” Dylan corrects, eyes crinkling just a little with fondness, and tugs Owen back in for one last kiss. “Well done.”

Owen watches him go, trying not to smile too widely, but the warmth in his chest is still bubbling away as he turns back and spots the matching expressions on the two Centres’ faces.

“Shut up,” he mutters.


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Loving that bit of Christmas when your relatives won't stop using your old name and you just have to grin and bear it while you pretend not to be screaming internally, because trying to explain it to them is 'rude', shutting down or walking away from the conversation that you're *barely* involved in is too, and anything else would confuse your poor grandparents who love you really when actually yes, you do know that - you're not an idiot, you know they just don't get it - but that doesn't stop it hurting anyway.
> 
> And *breathe*.
> 
> I'm also REALLY not over that Sarries loss on Saturday. At all. Will I ever be? I don't know. Probably. When they beat Exeter at home. And in the final. Because they will. Because they're Saracens and we all love them (unless we hate them, but anyone who hates them is just jealous. Right? Right, guys?)... I'm also mourning the loss of that winning streak. And the top of the table. But the women are still on track, so yay!
> 
> Um... Trying to remember what this chapter is... Oh! South Africa. Good ol' South Africa tour. (Am I rambling more than I normally do when I'm actually sleep deprived? I think I am. Remind me to stay up later when posting any works in future. Maybe I just don't normally have the energy or the hand-eye coordination to keep up with my brain at 00:08 or whenever in the morning.) Anyway, I think that was a painful tour for all of us England fans, right until the end, where I nearly cried with happiness. But guess what? You guys don't get to see that bit. No happy endings at Christmas time, I'm afraid... Oh, and Owen sort of/half backs out of doing something he was meant to do about a month before, so... Nothing on that front, either. Lots of dialogue.
> 
> Yes, I am genuinely writing what I am thinking right now. Not bothering to edit anything out (apart from when go off on a bit of dialogue aimed at myself which includes my name, and then I cut that out. Not that I *really* mind anyone knowing my first name, but... Just being a little careful).
> 
> I found somewhere to put my Pride flag! It's hanging over the top of my curtains, so that's quite nice... And the grandparents that I'm actually going to see face-to-face are the ones who are better with, y'know, the whole *being queer* thing. So that's something. And I actually managed a two-hour training session! Missed so much training because of dysphoria that I actually haven't done a two-hour session in WEEKS. (Not counting when we do an hour of one type of training/short break/hour of a different type.) And I didn't totally die. Yes, I was on Ibuprofen for the whole thing, but that was a routine that my coach had me start before I went on a missing-training spree. When did AO3 become a place for me to vent my entire life? Probably as soon as I started posting this, actually. Yep. Most likely then. Sorry.
> 
> I did consider putting this off until Christmas day, but then I thought that I might see if I can put up something about Christmas in the Trans!Owen series instead, since that was actually the first thing I started writing for it and I haven't finished it. So... regular weekly update it is. Merry Christmas to all of you, or Happy Holiday/Seasons Greetings to anyone who doesn't celebrate it!

“Hey,” Owen grins, pleased that this has worked, and Dylan returns the expression, though his movements are jerky on the screen, disrupted by the hotel’s Wi-Fi.

“Hey,” Dylan echoes. “How’s camp going?”

“It’s good,” Owen shrugs, tries not to grin wider at Dylan’s unimpressed expression. “Nah, the lads are settling in well. Eddie’s working us hard, obviously.”

That Eddie is. Owen’s body hasn’t really stopped aching, no matter how much he stretches. His foam roller’s been in use twice as much as it would be in a normal week – if not more – and he’s not sure his protein intake is quite cutting it, to be honest, let alone his carbs.

It does feel good, though, to be working so hard, to be pushing his body so forcefully through its paces. Owen doesn’t think that anyone becomes a high-level rugby player without gaining some appreciation for the pain-before-gain ideal, and certainly not without starting to find a slightly-higher-than-healthy level of affection for the process. Regardless, there’s a definite sense of satisfaction to be found in knowing that he’s working as hard as he can for something he enjoys so much.

“Good,” Dylan nods, and there’s something just a little knowing in his voice. “Team’s gelling well?”

Owen tries to think of anything that might be worth mentioning.

“Yeah,” he affirms. “I wasn’t sure about Fordy and Cips, but… You can tell they’re competitive, but they get along well enough.”

“It’ll be good for Ford to have some more competition for the 10 shirt,” Dylan points out, and Owen has to agree with that even before his boyfriend keeps talking. “I mean, he’s had you the whole time, of course, but you’re pretty settled at 12.”

Chewing his lip, Owen hums in thought.

“I mean, there was the Ireland game, but I don’t think that was ever really a long-term option.”

“He’s a good player,” Dylan sighs. “He just… needs to remember that.”

Owen hopes George can – and will – remember, because he likes their on-field and off-field partnerships, and he _knows_ the younger man is talented. He’s seen George’s brilliance in attack, even if he is a bit small to do much in defence, and if George can work on his strengths and bring up some of his bigger weaknesses, he’ll be fine. He just needs the confidence to do what needs to be done, in Owen’s opinion.

For a moment, the conversation settles into comfortable silence, and Owen watches Dylan, unable to keep himself from smiling at the sight of his boyfriend’s face.

“How’ve you been feeling lately?” he asks finally, and receives a shrug from Dylan in return.

“I’ve been better, but… I’m improving. Should be back with Saints for pre-season.”

“Good,” Owen relaxes. “And you’re looking after yourself, still?”

“Yes, Mother,” Dylan rolls his eyes. “On that note, though… I’m thinking I might tell them.”

Owen blinks, lost.

“What?”

“My parents,” Dylan clarifies. “We’ve been together for, what? Seven months, or thereabouts? Your family knows, and so do several of your clubmates… I don’t want to keep them in the dark.”

“Yeah…” Owen looks at him and sees no real hesitation or worry in his eyes, difficult as it is to tell through this pixelated screen. “If you’re ready, go for it. Let me know how it goes, yeah?”

“No, I just won’t mention it again,” Dylan tells him sarcastically, and he has to huff in exasperation.

“You know what I mean.”

It’s a big step. Owen doesn’t think he’ll ever forget the day he came out to his own parents, and he honestly doesn’t know what Dylan’s will say; it’s a strange realisation, that he doesn’t actually have any idea what Dylan’s family thinks of the LGBT community.

“Of course I will,” Dylan assures him. “I won’t do it straight away – they’re coming over while you’re away, so I’ll tell them towards the end of their visit, alright?”

“Good luck,” Owen offers, because there’s not really much more he can say.

“Thanks,” Dylan grins, nerves finally beginning to shine through in patches. “I’ll need it, I reckon.”

 

“So…” Jamie drops down next to him, grinning just a little, and Owen tries to ignore the sense of dread that rises when he realises that most of the Sarries lads have gathered, cornering him where they won’t be overheard by their non-Saracens teammates. “This boyfriend, Faz. Let’s hear a bit more about him?”

Lifting a hand, Owen groans and scrubs at his eyes. He’s well aware of Loz sitting on his other side, looking far less curious and more incredibly smug, and the rest of them… He should have expected it – _did_ expect it to be honest, but still hoped otherwise – and it really doesn’t help that they all seem to be wearing matching expressions of unabashed interest.

It’s very off-putting.

Really, he should just tell them, because he was supposed to at least a month ago, now, but… he’s really not ready right now. He can’t keep saying no, though, so maybe it’s time to try a different tactic.

“He’s nice,” he shrugs, searching for the most generic descriptions he can find. “I like him. He’s pretty smart, pretty funny, good-looking…”

Maro frowns at him, clearly aware that the lines he’s feeding them are basic and mostly just his own opinions, rather than any clear fact, but the rest of them are hanging onto his every word.

“He’s not from around here,” he offers a small, vague bit of detail. “He moved when he was about… half the age he is now.”

“Where’s he from, then?” Ben Spencer presses, and Owen grins at him.

“Well…” he lifts a shoulder. “You tell me.”

He thinks he hears Jamie groan, and he definitely sees the hand that his long-time friend scrubs over his face.

“Faz…”

Beside him, Loz snickers, and Owen casts him a look to find him smirking gleefully, the picture of evil as he watches their teammates’ expressions. It’s… disturbing to see, on Loz’s face – of all people – because Loz is normally so nice, so mild-mannered, and now… Owen doesn’t think he ever wants to trust his teammate with a secret again, if only so he doesn’t have to see Loz looking so horrifically out of character.

“Alright,” he tears his gaze away and looks around the rest of them. “I’ll tell you something, right?”

They probably deserve that, if nothing else. And maybe he’d like to see their faces when they realise that they missed such a big chance…

“So, after we won the Premiership, I spent a good ten minutes talking to him outside the changing room.”

Jamie’s jaw drops.

“You’ve got to be kidding me…”

On his left, Loz laughs harder.

 

Their video call after the second Test – their fourth of the tour – feels markedly different from their first. Owen can’t meet Dylan’s eyes, can’t stand to see the disappointment that he’s sure will shine through on his Captain’s face, because Owen’s let him down, let the whole team down, and Dylan can’t tell him that this one wasn’t his fault, because he lost his temper yesterday, his composure flying out of the window, and there’s no one who’s responsible for that but himself.

“Faz…” Dylan sighs. “Mate, I’m not going to say you had a good game…”

“Yeah, because I pretty obviously fucked up,” Owen snorts, not meaning to sound quite as miserable as he does, and Dylan sighs again.

“Well… Maybe,” his boyfriend concedes, grimacing at the look that Owen gives him. “Yeah, you fucked up. You lost your temper, you didn’t deal well with the Ref… And you had some highlights as well, but at the end of the day… Yeah. You’ve got a lot of work to do on your captaincy.”

There’s a lump forming in Owen’s throat, sharp and painful, that he doesn’t think he can quite swallow around. Instead of trying, he stays silent and nods, letting Dylan do the talking.

“That’s going to take time and work, mate. You’re not even Captain at Saracens, so you’ve pretty much just been thrown in at the deep-end in a really bad patch for the team. It’s going to take time, a _lot_ of work, and you have to reign in that temper, but if you keep at it, you’ll get there.”

Owen searches for a response to that for several seconds, then gives up. There’s a question that’s been buzzing around his mind for a while, now, and he wants to voice it, but he’s not sure he’d be able to handle the answer.

He asks anyway.

“Dyl… Do you think Eddie was right to choose me?”

He’s been expecting it, but his heart still sinks when Dylan doesn’t answer right away. He’s been trying to avoid reading what everyone’s saying about him, but it’s hard to miss, to be honest. Joe would make a good Captain, and so would Maro – better than him, at any rate.

“Yes.”

It takes Owen a moment to realise what Dylan’s said.

“… _What_?”

“Yes,” Dylan repeats. “I do think Eddie was right.”

“Really?” Owen asks, unconvinced.

“If you don’t trust my opinion, don’t ask for it,” Dylan huffs out an irritated breath. “It’s going to take you a bit of time to settle in, but I think he should stick with you. Eventually, I’ll be too old to play for England, and I think you’re the best person to take my place.”

Owen doesn’t miss the look that flashes across Dylan’s face at his own words, but he doesn’t comment on it. No one ever wants to get too old to play at their best. It’s something that Owen thinks his boyfriend has been dreading: the slow decline of fitness with increasing age, until finally he doesn’t cut it anymore, isn’t adequate for England or for Saints. In a way, it makes Owen feel guilty for likely having five or more years left in him after Dylan’s finished – but then, Dylan had that time before he was old enough (even if Owen _did_ start playing in English professional union at a younger age than anyone before him, or something like that).

“Don’t give me that look,” Dylan frowns at him. “It’s going to happen.”

Blinking, Owen wonders when he became so easy to read – or maybe it’s just Dylan who knows him well enough to be able to tell, just like his dad always seems to know what he’s thinking as well.

With a shrug to shake the thought away, he meets Dylan’s eyes.

“Doesn’t mean I have to like it,” he points out honestly.

“I should hope you don’t,” Dylan’s lips twitch in amusement for a second. “…I told my parents.”

Part of Owen thinks this sudden switch of topics is just to distract him from his low mood, but it doesn’t really matter, because it works.

“And…?” he asks cautiously, hopefully.

The expression on Dylan’s face isn’t entirely promising.

“They’re… surprised,” his boyfriend sighs. “I think they’re a bit unsettled by the idea that you’re the only man I’ve ever been…”

“How romantic,” Owen teases, just for the brief quirk of a smile that Dylan lets show. “What, they think I’m influencing you?”

“I don’t know,” Dylan admits, scrubbing a hand roughly over his face, and briefly, Owen’s chest aches to be there. “Maybe. Probably. They’re not… upset. It’s just going to take a bit of getting used to, I reckon. I think, if they meet you, they’ll feel better about it.”

Slowly, Owen nods.

“I mean, I could, at some point?” he offers. “If you think that’d help.”

Dylan’s shaking his head before Owen even finishes talking.

“I don’t want you to meet them until they’ve made their mind up. I’m not going to put you through that – they’re stubborn, when they want to be, and they won’t make it easy for you if they don’t _want_ to like you.”

Being as he is, and very much aware of his somewhat abrasive personality, Owen can only agree with Dylan that, in that case, it’s best to leave such a meeting for now.

“How are you?” he asks instead of acknowledging the point aloud, knowing that Dylan will understand both his agreement and the question.

By the low exhale of Dylan’s breath, he can tell that his expectations are accurate.

“I’m… better than I thought I’d be, to be honest,” Dylan tells him. “I kind of expected it, you know? I don’t blame them for needing a bit of time to think, so… That’s that, I guess – just have to wait it out.”

Owen wants to be able to offer a better solution, but there’s nothing he can really think of. He wants to be able to give more support, but all he can do is nod and smile in sympathy.

“Yeah,” he agrees quietly, then glances at the time and realises how late it’s becoming. “I’ll see you in a few days.”


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We have a slightly early chapter, yay! (Because I got bored of not posting anything, to be quite honest. I might actually post on Thursday as well, or just skip next week entirely, because I'm going back to Sixth Form and still have too much work to do because I haven't done any yet... But then it's into several weekends of competing before I stop competing through winter pretty much altogether, which is sad, but means I'll have TIME for the first time in my life since I was... 9? Anyway, good luck getting regular updates until we're in the second weekend of the Six Nations. I'm missing the ENGvIRE game for that last weekend of competition. I KNOW. I wasn't happy to realise it, and I'm not sure if my coach was more amused or disappointed in me when I mentioned it.) Also, I'll admit, I went to my dashboard and scrolled through my works to find this (didn't exactly take long, but there we go...), and actually almost jumped when I realised I had a fourth work. I sort of keep forgetting that I've actually posted anything other than RPF on here.
> 
> Aaanyway, I hope everyone had a good Christmas/holiday, depending on your culture or religion or any other factors (like whether or not you actually *get* a holiday over Christmas...). Favourite present was definitely the Sarries shirt my parents got me - and when you consider that they really aren't fans of how much I talk about rugby and my mum has a strategy of 'whoever you're not supporting, I'm supporting them, even when I can't remember their name for more than a minute', that's a huge step for them - and yes, it says 'Farrell' on the back. Because maybe I talk about Owen twice as much as anyone else. The Big Little Things by Henry Fraser was great to get as well - incredible read, if anyone's looking for some inspiration/motivation, or just something new to read, or anything like that. Amazing guy, amazing story. Anyone get anything particularly good - or, conversely, have an absolutely awful time? Either way, feel free to come and have a chat... *insert creepy smile here*
> 
> I like to think that this chapter's quite soft compared to some of the other ones. It's a bit more fluffy, a bit happier, and Owen gets a lovely bit of family time. Plus, Dylan gets FAR more comfortable with his sexuality (whatever it is; he doesn't know, Owen doesn't know; I don't know, because if he doesn't want labels, even solely in the version of him I've created in my head, he ain't having one). I can't believe I just wrote 'ain't'. Twice, now, at that. Anyway, I hope it's enjoyable. Oh, and does anyone else get confused about how to spell the name of Owen's sister (I want to say she's the older of the two but I can't quite remember...)? Google says 'Alisha', but her Instagram says 'Elleshia', and a lot of people seem to call her 'Elle', so Elleshia it is.
> 
> Oh! Looking forward to Owen being Captain at the weekend - but I also just really hope Brad's alright... That man is a legend, and he needs to protect his head. Seriously. 
> 
> Down to business, though!

“Feel a bit better now?” Dylan asks him, mere minutes after he first steps foot back on English soil.

“Mm,” Owen doesn’t bother with a more articulate reply, dropping his head back onto the seat rest and closing his eyes.

The buzz of the third Test is still echoing faintly in his chest, but in all honesty, he’s exhausted. It’s been something of an emotional rollercoaster in South Africa, and to end with such a night of celebration – especially edged with the occasional bitter reminder that they may have won the third Test, but they lost the series – has sapped his energy completely. Now, back in the presence of Dylan alone, he can finally rest.

Dylan’s laugh, equally amused and understanding, is comfortably familiar, and so are the lips that press to his forehead before his boyfriend starts the car and pulls away from the parking space.

“You’ve got a bit of time before you go back to pre-season, right?”

Tired as he is, Owen has to take a moment to process the question before he answers.

“…Yeah.”

Slowly, knowing that, no matter how weary he feels, he won’t be able to sleep at the moment, he opens his eyes and rolls his head over to watch Dylan through bleary eyes.

“I know you’ve got your family coming over for a bit, but I was wondering if you want to stay with me for a few days after that?”

Owen blinks, surprised, and considers the idea. It sounds nice, definitely, but whether it would work…

“Yeah,” he agrees. “I reckon we can do that.”

Dylan grins at him.

“You reckon?” he teases. “Busy schedule, is it?”

Snorting, Owen answers with a lopsided smile of his own. As Dylan turns back to the road, he finds himself still staring at his boyfriend, watching the older man with what feels like a sort of quiet contentment. The inner turmoil that has bubbled under his skin since almost the beginning of the South Africa Series has been calmed slightly by their win, and Dylan’s offer has finally settled him. The thought of being able to spend several days with Dylan – at _Dylan_ ’s house, which is rarer than his and somehow makes it seem more special – is exciting, to say the least, but also… comforting.

When the car slows to a stop at a set of red lights, Dylan glances over to meet his eyes, offering a small, fond smile that Owen returns helplessly.

The words are there, right there, and this time, he lets them out.

“I love you.”

It’s Dylan’s turn to blink in surprise, but then the smile widens, and he leans over to kiss Owen squarely on the lips, muffling the quietly startled noise that Owen lets slip.

“I love you too,” he assures when he pulls back, and Owen bites his lip on the beam that threatens to split his face, ducking his head to hide his flaming cheeks – because of course he has to pick _now_ to get embarrassed.

A car horn blasts behind them, and Dylan twists around, pulling a face at the green light ahead of them as he turns his attention back to driving. Owen sits back, wordlessly satisfied, and reaches out a hand to turn on the radio. Maybe the droning noise of songs that he’s heard too many times will help him get a little more rest.

 

“So.”

Owen swallows, strangely nervous as his dad fixes him with a serious stare and points a fork in his direction. Something about the expression unsettles him, and he’s been aware of some sort of unspoken topic in the room, though he hasn’t been able to work out what.

“Yeah…?” he tries carefully.

His dad’s frown turns unimpressed.

“You’ve got something that you need to tell your siblings, I think.”

Owen returns his father’s stare blankly, unable to think of anything that he might have been supposed to tell his sisters and Gabe. Looking around at them, they don’t seem to know either – obviously – but his mum is nodding along.

“I do?” he hedges.

His dad rolls his eyes, and Owen sits back, absolutely clueless, as he tries to work out what he hasn’t said.

“Where are you going in a few days?” his mum prompts, and Owen blinks, then frowns.

“Dyl…” he trails off halfway through his boyfriend’s name, glancing around the table. “Didn’t _you_ tell them?”

It never _occurred_ to him to tell his siblings about Dylan. His dad only shakes his head, incredulous, and Owen has to let out a low breath before he looks around at his curious siblings, all three of them watching him in interest.

“Er…” he coughs. “Right. I’ve got a boyfriend.”

Gabriel slumps immediately, disappointed and disinterested, and Owen turns his head away to hide his grin at the disgust that shows on his little brother’s face.

“What’s his name?” Gracie asks curiously, setting her own cutlery down.

Owen coughs again, rubbing the back of his shoulder in discomfort as he tries not to shift too awkwardly. It feels somehow more difficult to be talking about this face-to-face – and especially so when Dylan isn’t with him.

“Dylan,” he hesitates. “Dylan Hartley.”

The face that both his sisters pull bothers him, and he narrows his eyes at them, immediately defensive.

“What’s wrong with that?” he demands.

Gracie and Elleshia share something of a smirk, and Owen feels irritation prickle under his skin. He’s been with Dylan for over half a year, now – which, he has to admit, is a little strange to think – but he still feels very protective of their relationship, likely because of how sheltered and hidden they’ve kept it for the entire time – and maybe also because he has so much to lose, now.

“It’s just…” Elleshia shrugs. “I mean, _Dylan Hartley_ …”

“Yeah?” he retorts.

“Girls…” his mum warns, but his sisters pay her no mind, and neither does he.

“He’s a bit…” Gracie bites her lip, glancing at Elleshia again. “I just – You must have been a bit desperate.”

Owen’s cheeks flush brilliant red, heat surging to his face as he stares at his sisters. Never mind that it’s not really their business who he dates, and that it’s certainly not their place to judge his partners – _especially_ not Dylan – he doesn’t like the idea that they view Dylan as below his standard.

“Really?” he glares at them. “Have you ever spoken to him? When have you ever met him? Why do you think I was desperate?”

Elleshia and Gracie don’t really seem to have anything to say to that, but he can tell that they _have_ responses – just not ones they’re willing to voice aloud, at least in front of their parents – so he continues a little longer to drive the point home.

“Would I really have stayed with him for…” he pauses to count the months in his head. “About seven months if I was _desperate_?”

He almost regrets his words when his entire family stares at him, surprised.

“ _Seven_ months?” his dad repeats. “That’s… serious.”

Owen has to look away at that, settling his eyes on the wall over his mum’s shoulder instead of looking any of them in the eye.

“Yeah,” he acknowledges. “It’s… It’s serious.”

 

“We should go out,” Dylan announces, and Owen blinks, scrubbing the bleariness from his eyes – the night was too hot to sleep well, and unlike Dylan, he’s a little out of practice when it comes to getting up on time – and pushing himself up to look over at Dylan, who stands beside the bed, searching for a t-shirt.

“What?” he asks, unsure exactly what Dylan means.

Dylan sighs, dropping back down onto the mattress, and leans over to kiss Owen.

“I’ve got a free day today, you haven’t got long before you’re back to pre-season, and the weather is…” he waves a hand at the window. “Perfect day for the beach.”

For a moment longer, Owen just stares at him, considering the suggestion. It sounds nice, but…

“A public trip?”

Shrugging, Dylan reaches out to lace their fingers together: a rare gesture, but one that Owen appreciates, enjoys. It’s… domestic. Reassuring.

“If someone sees us, someone sees us.”

At Owen’s unconvinced look, Dylan twists his lips in a grimace.

“I’m fed up,” the older man explains. “Eight months of hiding… It’s getting old.”

Owen shifts into a more upright position, chewing his lip a little as he struggles internally with his agreement with Dylan – he’s getting tired of this, too – and the caution that always shadows his thoughts when he finds himself tempted by something like this. What’s the point, though? Is it really worth sacrificing this precious time they have together, before they’re both back in pre-season, injury-free and unlikely to see each other face-to-face outside of short, three-day England camps until November.

“Yeah,” he agrees. “We should go. Somewhere quiet, though.”

“If we can find somewhere,” Dylan squeezes his hand, then stands to dress; this time, Owen follows.

The beach they eventually end up visiting is a long way to go, and it’s not _particularly_ quiet, but it’s the best they can manage, and Owen finds that he doesn’t really care. He’s out in public with his boyfriend, and if anyone _does_ see them… Owen doubts many people will actually recognise them, and even if they do, who’s going to bother to take a picture? No one will believe a story without photographic evidence.

In the back of his mind, he’s not sure he’d be too bothered about a story emerging for this, as long as it’s based on fact, not speculation.

Stretching, Dylan cracks his back and lets out a quiet groan of relief that Owen recognises and can definitely sympathise with.

“Coming in?” Dylan jerks his head towards the water, grinning when Owen hesitates. “Or are you scared.”

“Fuck you…” Owen rolls his eyes as he strips his t-shirt off.

Dylan merely laughs, turning towards the water, and Owen can’t find it in himself to be truly annoyed – or even slightly agitated – as he jogs lightly after his boyfriend. Out of the corner of his eye, he thinks he sees someone glance at him, thinks he sees a flash of surprise and a glance towards Dylan, but he brushes it aside forcefully. So what if anyone sees them? Whose business is it, anyway?

The water’s cold, but Owen sets his jaw and pretends that it’s perfect – made easier by the warm air temperature – as Dylan turns to watch him expectantly, already up to his waist. When he gets close enough, Dylan reaches out, taking his hand low to the water, where it’s difficult – but not impossible – to see and dragging him deeper in.

The sun glints off the water, and Owen suspects that, if the light on Dylan’s skin weren’t already so bright, Dylan’s skin would ripple with shadows from the gentle movement of the waves. The air’s very still, and the further out they move, the quieter it gets, the calmer he feels.

“Come here,” Dylan murmurs finally, tugging him in for a kiss, and Owen knows that his boyfriend gets a kick out of this minor act of defiance against the media even before he draws back to see the obvious satisfaction on Dylan’s face.

He doesn’t really mind – wouldn’t even if they weren’t far enough out that they’re unidentifiable, he thinks. It’s just nice to have this time, to feel like they’re not hiding anymore. Really, they need to talk about that more, but not right now, he thinks.

Such thoughts disappear when Dylan lunges at him, tackling him under the water, and when he finds the surface again and shakes the water out of his ears, Dylan’s laughing at him. Wiping his eyes and blinking the last of the stinging salt-water from them, Owen manages a mock-glare before his composure cracks and he feels a grin stretch over his own face.

“You’re a dick,” he complains anyway, but Dylan doesn’t care.

“You love me anyway.”

“ _That_ ,” Owen flicks water up at his face, “Is not the point.”

The sickly tang of salt on his tongue is more than made up for by the smile on Dylan’s lips – and the grimace that appears when Owen eventually manages to splash him with a face-full of sea water. _Revenge_.


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So... I know I said I might post something on Thursday (I meant Wednesday, actually, but there we go) or not at all, but... I got bored. Again. I should probably be doing Physics or Psychology homework to pass the time, but I'm a master of only doing things that I don't have a fairly immediate commitment to, so here we are, at Chapter 10. Look at that! Small milestones, people, small milestones...
> 
> I feel like this might actually be a bit longer than normal, which is nice...? And sort of... fairly positive, as chapters go? Not completely, but there's definitely a general upwards trend. 
> 
> I sorta want to write something else for my Trans Owen series, because Saturday was NOT a good day, and training and dysphoria had a fairly big clash (plus on Tuesday, I officially drop one of my scheduled training sessions to make it all a bit easier to deal with). At the same time... I really don't know how to express it, especially since I may know a fair amount about general athlete behaviour and how clubs in my own sport tend to run, but rugby...? Not a clue. Absolutely no idea. All I know is that England Rugby has a good equality policy when it comes to trans people, or at least better than some other sporting unions, so there we are. Maybe I should find out what World Rugby has to say...? If anything... Back on the topic that started this paragraph, if anyone has any suggestions just so I can vent somehow, even if not quite in the way I want to... I feel so shameless, basically asking people to talk to me. I'm bored, I'm lonely (aren't I always?) and I don't want to keep bothering the same one person, so... I'll stop now. Yep. Sorry about that.
> 
> Anyway, I hope you enjoy!

Owen bites back a groan as he tilts his head to drain the last few drops in his bottle, desperate for more to calm his burning throat, scraped raw as it is by the arid air that he’s been gasping in lungfuls of for the last hour of pre-season training at least. He hasn’t lost that much fitness over his break, but coming back in the middle of pre-season, when most of his clubmates have been back for several weeks, is always tough.

“Faz!”

The solid slap on his back jolts him forwards on weak legs, and he turns to find Jamie grinning at him, unbothered by both of their sweaty, slumped demeanours.

“Honestly never thought I’d say this, but… Collaborating with my rival, mate? Not on.”

Confused, Owen squints at him. He can tell that Jamie’s joking about something, but he can’t work out what.

“You and Hartley?” Jamie prompts, and Owen’s cheeks light up with fire.

“Er…”

“Nothing to say for yourself?” Jamie shakes his head, mock-disappointed. “I – Really, Faz…”

Owen rubs a finger over his temple, trying to compose himself as he clears his head and attempts to get his thoughts back in some semblance of order. Well, he _has_ been meaning to tell all of them about his relationship with Dylan for at least two months…

“How did you find out?” he finds himself asking curiously.

Jamie snorts.

“He picked you up from the airport, remember?”

_Oh. Right._

That makes sense, so Owen nods in acceptance. He remembers Dylan kissing him not long after he got into the car; really, he shouldn’t be surprised that someone saw.

“Wait,” Richard glances between them. “ _What_?”

“Er…” Owen lifts a hand, rubbing the back of his shoulder – which hurts, but helps all the same – as he looks around at the interested faces of his clubmates and friends, most of whom seem to have heard Richard’s exclamation. “I’m – Uh, I’m dating Dylan Hartley.”

“Oh,” Brad comments mildly before anyone else can speak, and Owen has never been more grateful to his Captain in his life. “Are you telling everyone now, then?”

Swallowing, Owen takes a deep breath, lets it out again as he tries to pretend that he hasn’t become the sole focus of his teammates’ attention. At the very least, Brad’s question has diffused the others’ reactions before they can even take place – and it’s easy to answer.

“Just you lot,” he shrugs. “I meant to tell you before the Premiership final, but I didn’t get round to it.”

“You didn’t _get_ _round_ to telling us that you’re dating the England Captain?” Jamie repeats, incredulous. “How long has this been going on?”

“About eight months?” Owen offers sheepishly.

“Shit…”

Sean’s whistle summons more blood to his face.

“So, you’re an England Captain dating _the_ England Captain?” Richard muses, grinning. “England Rugby’s power couple, is it?”

“Fuck off,” is all Owen can mutter in reply, faintly mortified and dreading what else his teammates will come up with in the coming weeks, when they’ve had more time to process this information and think of the best things to say to utterly humiliate him.

“Seriously, though…” Ben breaks the very brief silence that settles in the room. “Eight months?”

“Yeah,” Owen hesitates. “Something like that. It was November.”

“The Autumn Internationals?”

Reluctantly, Owen nods.

“And did you tell Skips right after that?”

Caught off guard, Owen only blinks at Maro. _Where does Brad come into this?_

“Nah,” Brad shakes his head. “I kind of walked in on them after the Champions Cup quarter-final.”

The best thing Owen can do is duck his head to hide how brilliantly red his face must be as the changing room erupts with laughter. If this is their reaction to his relationship with Dylan, though – which is to say, treating it like anything else – he’s happy. Humiliated, but content.

 

Seeing Dylan again before the season re-starts in full is not a surprise, exactly, but there’s definitely an element of relief in the excitement that buzzes through Owen’s chest on spotting Dylan’s wide smile for the first time in what feels like far too long. They’ve kept up phone and video calls, of course, but that doesn’t compare to actually _seeing_ Dylan: being able to reach out and touch him, if he wishes, and taking in every little clue of his boyfriend’s body language, his knowledge of which he’s spent many years collecting – but only consciously started memorising within the last twelve months.

There isn’t really much to catch each other up on; Dylan knows that Owen told Saracens, and Owen knows that Dylan’s parents are starting to come around to the idea. Instead, Owen’s content to settle his head back against Dylan’s chest when they’re finally alone in their room, texting back and forth with his dad as Dylan’s ribs rise and fall beneath him, the steady beating of his boyfriend’s heart eventually lulling him to a half-sleep. At some point, Dylan’s fingers start to card through his hair, and soon after, he finds himself texting a quick ‘good night x’ to his dad and dropping his phone to what little of the mattress is left, with both of them fitted onto Dylan’s bed.

Sighing, he cranes his neck back to glance up at Dylan, pleased when Dylan meets his gaze and tilts his own head so that their lips can meet without too much effort. He knows he should move, if he’s this close to falling asleep: get ready to turn in for the night and move back to his own bed. He’s too comfortable, though, and Dylan is warm, his touch gentle and comforting, his presence sorely missed over the last few weeks – and maybe, someday, they can do something about that.

“Tired?” he hears Dylan tease, managing only a vaguely positive hum in return – though he wasn’t half an hour ago, so it must just be the familiarity of Dylan’s presence – and even that seems slurred, though whether that’s how it comes out or his exhaustion has affected his hearing as well, he isn’t quite sure.

Dylan shifts, and Owen prepares to have to get up at Dylan’s encouragement, but instead, Dylan flips on the bedside lamp and slips out from under him, padding across the room to turn off the main light before returning to the same position and lifting an arm to allow Owen to resettle himself then dropping it over Owen’s shoulders. One more movement to flick off the bedside lamp, and Owen closes his eyes, safe in the knowledge that, for the next two days at least, Dylan’s presence is his to enjoy.

He wakes up with one arm slung over Dylan’s waist, his left leg tangled between Dylan’s, and when he gains enough awareness to remember exactly where they are, he’s surprised by how much room he has on the bed. Carefully, he lifts his head, frowning when he realises that Dylan is hanging half over the edge of the mattress. That will probably be painful when Dylan wakes up… but there’s nothing he can do about it until Dylan _does_ wake up, so for now, he might as well return to that comfortable position and go back to sleep…

As the room gradually brightens, he dozes on and off, waiting for a sign to clue him in to Dylan’s shift into wakefulness. When the older man stirs, he tightens his hold to keep Dylan from falling off, only shifting away when Dylan rolls a little towards him.

“Morning,” he croaks, grimacing as he realises that his throat is dry, and looks around for his bottle.

“Morning,” Dylan replies, then tugs him back so that they lie face to face, leaning in for a short kiss before sitting up and scrubbing at his eyes.

As Owen expected, Dylan frowns and reaches around to rub his back, arching his spine to crack it as he stands.

Swinging his legs over the bed, Owen pushes himself upright and moves around the bed to examine Dylan’s actions. Reaching out a hand, he digs his knuckles into the tight spot that Dylan’s been trying to reach and gets a surprised grunt from the older man.

“Yeah, that’s –” Dylan cuts himself off as Owen shifts his hand, working over the band of solid muscle and reaching up with his other arm to wrap it around Dylan’s chest and hold him steady. “Fuck…”

“That the right spot?” Owen grins, aware that his amusement is audible in his voice, and receives a wordless groan.

For a few minutes, he kneads out the tension in Dylan’s back, until his forearm is just beginning to burn and he has to pause for a moment to wring his hand.

“Don’t hurt yourself, hey?” Dylan turns, tugging him in for another chaste kiss – nothing long, this early in the morning. “Thanks.”

“You’re welcome,” Owen grins, but he can’t resist reaching around to stab his fingers hard into the tightest spot in Dylan’s back.

“Dick,” Dylan complains.

 

Owen knows he’s being a dick. He knows that he’s rubbing a little bit on his teammates’ nerves – on Dylan’s nerves – and that his temper’s a bit (a _lot_ ) shorter than it should be, but he can’t really help it. He’s been feeling a little… _raw_ all day, a little frayed, everything just slightly more irritating than it should be – especially the amount of laughing his teammates are doing.

It’s too much. Owen doesn’t understand why they’re so _happy_.

Rolling his eyes, he turns away from his clubmates’ banter, setting his jaw as he stares around the room at the gathered squad. Dylan’s talking to some of the other lads, and he really _shouldn’t_ care, but it nettles him somehow: that Dylan’s spending this time with other people, not appreciating that this could be the last day they’re likely to see each other – off-pitch, at least – until late September, and maybe that’s Owen’s fault for driving him away along with everyone else today, but he isn’t in the mood to entertain that thought right now. He just wants to be with Dylan – preferably, just the two of them, so that he doesn’t have to hide what Dylan means to him.

That’s the problem, really. All day, it’s been weighing on Owen’s mind that this is their last day together aside from the game on 15 September until they come together for their last training camp, and it’s been stressing him out, making him feel miserable and just a little bitter when he looks around at everyone who is either single and hasn’t yet found someone to _miss_ like he misses Dylan, or has a _female_ partner and doesn’t have to hide, doesn’t have to treasure what little time they have together because they live hours away and have schedules that seem almost _designed_ to clash.

“Faz, mate…”

It’s Fordy, to Owen’s surprise, who eventually sums up the courage to approach him, offering a cautious smile as he squeezes into the space between Owen and Jamie.

“You’ve been a bit off all day, mate,” his childhood friend grimaces. “You want to talk about it?”

Owen’s about to say ‘ _no_ ’ – and probably quite emphatically, at that – but he bites his lip on the automatic refusal, temptation to talk to someone about this overriding his instincts.

“Honestly?” he sighs. “Yeah. There’s… There’s _someone_ , and I’m probably not going to see him for a while, and I just…”

“Oh,” Fordy presses his lips together, wordlessly apologetic.

“I didn’t expect to feel so bad about it,” Owen admits.

“And you’ve chosen _today_ to feel bad about it?” George raises his eyebrows, and Owen concedes that, from the young Fly-half’s point of view, it must seem a little strange.

“Last time I’ll see him is today,” he explains. “Just… hitting hard.”

“Ouch.”

Jamie’s voice makes both Owen and George jump, and Owen twists around to see Jamie staring at him over Fordy’s shoulder, a crease in his brow. Obviously, his clubmate overheard all of that.

“Didn’t think about that,” Jamie tells him softly, stretching out to pat him on the shoulder. “Sorry, mate. You want me to try and get you two some time alone?”

Owen hesitates, glancing over at Fordy – he’s very much aware that the younger man doesn’t know about Dylan, that he hasn’t even discussed telling Fordy with his boyfriend – but the damage has been done, and the offer is too good to pass up on.

“Yeah…” he sighs, then after a brief hesitation, because Fordy is glancing around the room, gaze occasionally flitting back to him and then to some player or another, adds, “Just try not to tell anyone else that it’s someone in the team, yeah?”

“What?” Jamie looks at Fordy. “Oh, _shit_. Sorry, Faz… I thought you’d have…”

Jamie looks so panicked, so guilty, that Owen can only shrug.

“No worries, mate. Fordy won’t say anything, will you, George?”

Curiosity shines in his eyes, and he’s obviously itching to ask who it is – and Owen doesn’t doubt that he’d give in and admit that it’s Dylan if asked, and that his young friend knows it too – but Fordy shows yet again why he’s such a brilliant friend by simply nodding.

So it is that Owen finds himself pulled away by Dylan with barely an hour left of the camp, concern in his boyfriend’s eyes as he beckons Owen away from the rest of the lads. Owen is very much conscious of Fordy’s eyes on them, but no one says anything; the Captain wanting a private word with his Vice is hardly a strange occurrence.

“Jamie George said I should talk to you,” Dylan murmurs when they’re far enough away from everyone else to be safe from eavesdroppers if they keep their voices down. “Is it about why you’ve been pissed off all day?”

Uncomfortable, Owen shrugs, but he’s known Dylan intimately for long enough now to expect the unimpressed stare he’s met with before Dylan’s face even shifts into the required position.

“…Yeah.”

Dylan tilts his head expectantly.

“I…” It sounds stupid enough in Owen’s head, let alone how Dylan will take it if he says it aloud; he says as much. “It’s stupid.”

“So?” Dylan shrugs. “It’s bothering you.”

Shifting around so that no one can see the action, Dylan reaches out and squeezes his hand. The tender gesture, combined with the automatic adjustments that Dylan makes just to keep something so simple a secret, is enough to make his eyes sting very briefly, until he blinks rapidly a few times to clear them.

“I just – I’m not going to see you again until I’m playing you, and that’s only going to be eighty minutes, and then we’ll have to go weeks with just a handful of days where we’re still spending half our time pretending that we aren’t … And we don’t have much time, and it feels so stupid to spend it pretending that we’re just…”

He waves his free hand in frustration, scrubbing it over his eyes when Dylan sighs. When he drops his arm back to his side, Dylan’s eyes are closed, his head bowed.

“It’s frustrating,” Dylan agrees. “Every time you’re so close, and there’s someone there who doesn’t know… but I – We need to make a decision. Either we tell everyone, and deal with the consequences of that, and it might not solve the distance and time, but at least we can spend _this_ time together better, or we… suck it up.”

Owen draws in a sharp breath before he can help himself.

“And… If we _did_ tell everyone… You think you’d be…?”

For a moment, Dylan is silent – long enough for Owen’s heart to sink, but not quite so long that he gives up entirely – then, slowly, Dylan leans in to lower his voice next to Owen’s ear.

“I’ve had nine months, Owen. I’d rather be able to be… with you in front of our teammates than hidden in the dark. Maybe that’s the safer option, but we don’t play rugby because we want to be safe, right?”

The wink that Dylan offers him makes him laugh, and he sees Jamie glance over at them in his peripheral vision, though his attention is focussed entirely on his boyfriend.

“OK…” he blows out a breath. “Not – Not now, though, yeah? We need to talk about this more.”

“Definitely,” Dylan nods. “And… If you want to stay over for the day after the game against Saints… No matter what the result is.”

Owen chews his lip, but he already knows what his answer is, is only pretending to consider it to give him a bit of time to compose himself, make himself seem a little less eager – not that he needs to worry about that with Dylan. They’ve been together for nearly nine months, and he thinks he can allow himself to seem a little emotionally attached.

“Yeah,” he grins. “Sounds good – it’s a date.”

It’s Dylan’s turn to laugh.

“A date,” he repeats, and something about the way he says it makes Owen think that he likes the sound of that.

 

“You heard about Danny, right?”

Sighing, Dylan wrinkles his nose and nods. Owen shares the sentiment; it doesn’t look _too_ bad, from what he’s read, but… It’s not good, either. He can’t decide if it’s sympathy or irritation that he feels towards Danny at the moment, and with an RFU hearing coming up, the future doesn’t seem particularly bright for their newly-returned England teammate. Still, for Danny’s sake, he hopes they’re not too harsh.

Vaguely, he can’t help but wonder if Fordy feels the same way.

“We’ll just have to see what happens,” Dylan voices Owen’s main thought, and Owen suspects that his boyfriend sighs as he says it, but can’t really tell through the poor sound quality of this video chat.

“Yeah,” he agrees, sits back to take a better look at Dylan as he pushes all thoughts of Danny from his mind. “How’s pre-season going?”

“Not too bad…”

Owen stares at the screen, very much unconvinced. They both like the work, crave the satisfaction of knowing that this all leads to improvement, but there’s something in Dylan’s tone, in the twist of his lips, that betrays some sort of doubt. Owen doesn’t like it.

“What’s wrong?” he asks, vaguely aware that, at the start of their relationship – and it seems like such a long time ago, now – he’d never have picked up on something so minute.

“I just…” Dylan grimaces, and this time, it’s plain to see. “I’ve lost a lot of fitness, you know?”

Nodding, Owen scrubs a hand over his eyes. Yes, he knows. He’s never had a concussion like this, but he’s had other injuries, and it’s always a struggle to keep up fitness without making it worse or aggravating something else. A concussion can only be all the more difficult; when Owen had his knee injury, he just had to do exercise that didn’t require both legs. All exercise, however, requires a brain and thoughts – not good for concussion recovery, especially if the brain gets bounced around in the skull.

“You’ll get better,” he offers, though he knows that it’s hardly helpful; Dylan has far more experience in concussion recovery than he does, after all.

“Yeah,” Dylan acknowledges anyway, sighing. “It’ll just take a lot of work.”

Owen doesn’t have anything else to say to that, so he simply hums.

“…We need to talk about coming out,” Dylan continues, and Owen isn’t sure if it’s nerves or something else that rises inside him. “I just – I don’t want to make a big statement of it.”

Owen knows what he means. Dylan doesn’t think it _should_ be anyone else’s business, and he doesn’t want to give anyone a chance to _make_ it their business. Owen sees the appeal, likes the idea of just dating Dylan and not having to tell everyone to be public about it, but he doesn’t see how it’s possible. People will only make a bigger deal out of it if it comes out as a scandal of sorts.

“What else are we going to do?” he asks pointedly. “The journalists will make a big statement of it even if we don’t.”

Dylan slumps, the movement jerky on the screen, and Owen almost regrets saying it – but it’s true. They can’t escape the unique factor to their relationship, no matter what they do.

“Well,” Dylan draws in a breath. “We’ll make them do the hard work to make it a big statement – they can make a big deal, no problem, but if we don’t make a statement, they can’t inflate it.”

Owen frowns, unable to stop himself. They’re talking coming out, here. How are they going to come out without saying _something_?

“Then what –”

“I want to take you out on a date,” Dylan interrupts. “Whenever we next have time, I want to take you out to eat somewhere – I’ll find a nice place in Northampton for after the game, maybe. We just… act normal. Let people notice in their own time. I – We already went out once together, didn’t we? So it’d be nice to…”

Owen feels his cheeks burn, even as his stomach twists with nervous excitement.

“Yeah?” he asks quietly. “That’s – I’d like that.”

Short, simple and honest.

“I’ll give you some more details closer to the time,” Dylan promises, and when he smiles, bright and satisfied, Owen wants to kiss him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wait, one last question (you thought you'd gotten rid of me, didn't you? Well, think again):  
> Do I use ellipses too much? I know I use them a lot... but is it too much...? And I'm doing it again... *sigh*


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So... A fairly short one, I think? Longer than it might have been, because I shifted something from the next chapter into this one, but there we go. 
> 
> I'll be honest, I'm feeling pretty beaten up about Sarries losing to Sale - especially after losing to Chiefs a few weeks back, which is going to be an... interesting weekend to write about. I don't *entirely* know what happened at the end of the match, but I've heard a few things, so I'm sort of dreading watching the highlights. I also haven't seen Owen's tackle on Chris Ashton, but I've seen several people on twitter saying they don't like Owen but still thought it was harsh, so who knows? On a positive note, Tigers won! ...but Saints lost to Wasps, so... 
> 
> Anyway, I've actually done some homework! 11 questions on Quantum Physics in the bag! Now I just have a practical write-up due in for Tuesday... and another for Wednesday... and a third, plus more homework for the same teacher, PLUS Psychology revision due in for Thursday. So I'm really on top of things. Should hopefully get the Tuesday work done tonight, but we'll see about that...
> 
> Hope you've all had a good weekend - but without further ado, onto the chapter (which is a fairly light read, I think - a bit fluffy at points, but definitely not too plot-heavy)!

“Hey,” Owen tries to rearrange his facial features to show the sympathy he feels for Dylan and Saints, but it’s a little hard to get it through the exhilaration of the first game of the season and the win. “Erm…”

The look Dylan levels him with is flat, and Owen slumps just a little as the older man shakes his head. Clearly, Dylan isn’t in the mood to be pacified.

“Don’t give me that look, Faz. We lost; it wasn’t a great game; we’ll improve and move on.”

Trying not to sigh, Owen nods. It’s an unexpected consequence of dating Dylan – one that’s been sneaking up on him for months – but he finds himself caring about Saints’ results, wanting them to win as long as it doesn’t come at the cost of Sarries’ success. They’re becoming a sort of second team, and it’s a strange feeling, to realise that he has, in a way, found himself a supporter of a rugby team that he plays against.

Weirdly, he doesn’t really mind all that much.

“Sarries played well,” Dylan offers after a brief moment of silence, and Owen snorts before he can help himself.

“Two yellows,” he grins, shaking his head. “Our discipline was all over the place.”

“It was,” Dylan agrees. “Lads got a bit excited?”

“Something like that,” Owen scratches absent-mindedly at his cheek, considering the game. “We’ll have it sorted by the time we come up to you lot.”

“We’ll see about that,” Dylan snorts. “…What do you think about Cips and his pass?”

Owen shrugs. He’s seen it, it looked pretty impressive, but he’s not sure it’s quite worth the total media excitement it seems to have sparked up. In a way, he feels sorry for Danny; the other Fly-half doesn’t seem capable of doing anything without the media commenting, whether singing his praises or scorning his mistakes. Sure, the praise is nice, but this sort of rollercoaster… not so much. (Owen would know; he’s dealt with it what feels like every month for years, now.)

“Reckon you could do it?” Dylan teases, obviously amused.

Owen hesitates, thinking about it – but not for long.

“…Yeah.”

“Fordy?”

No thought required for that one. He’s seen George do it, if not in a game then in their years of practicing together, training together, playing out on the road together.

“Yeah, he could do it.”

“Me?”

Owen raises his eyebrow.

“…Nah.”

He holds a straight face for several long seconds, while Dylan huffs in mock-betrayal, then feels a smile split uncontrollably across his face. It’s not easy, being unable to see Dylan without planning and making plenty of time in his schedule – which he can’t really do, right at the start of the season when he’s come back to pre-season late anyway – but moments like this… They make everything worth it.

 

“Feeling better about this week?” Owen teases, grinning, and Dylan rolls his eyes but smiles in return.

This is the last chance they’ll have to talk for a week; they’re cutting off communication in the week leading up to the game, which Owen doesn’t think for a second he’ll enjoy, but seeing Dylan afterwards will be enough to make up for it. Sarries are still, in many respects, the priority – after all, their relationship rarely clashes with club commitments, and when it does, it’s easy enough to compromise. Perhaps easier than Owen expected, in truth, but he’s hardly complaining.

“Yeah,” Dylan nods, the corners of his eyes crinkling endearingly (Owen’s stomach twists a little at the sight, just as it always does, though he’s better at ignoring it now).

“Good…”

He lets his smile dim, just a little, settling into a fond twist of his lips that better reflects the quiet contentment he tends to feel these days when talking to Dylan. There’s just something about his boyfriend that calms him a little: makes him feel slightly more anchored, less restless. He couldn’t say what, but he can’t say that not knowing bothers him all that much either; the only thing that matters is that it’s Dylan.

“You alright?” Dylan grins. “Not falling asleep on me, are you?”

Owen shakes his head, but doesn’t bother to reply. Dylan stares back at him, amused, then twists to crack his back repeatedly.

“Lovely second half,” he says when he’s finished, and Owen tries not to grimace at the reminder that ‘lovely’ _only_ applied to the second half. “Went a bit missing before the break, didn’t you?”

Dylan’s teasing, Owen knows, but… They’re not consistent enough. It’s the start of the season, so they’ve got plenty of time to work on it, but it irritates him all the same. He wants _complete_ performances, and so do his teammates.

“You won by 21 points,” Dylan reminds him, apparently realising that Owen isn’t very happy. “ _Every_ team has things to work on, especially at this point in the season.”

Owen nods in acknowledgement, trying to suppress his frustration, but it’s something of a lost cause. These incomplete performances… It’s just something that they do _so_ much, like they’re struggling to wake up in the first half and need to kick themselves up the arse – because it’s the players who do it, not the coaches, and _surely_ that means they should be able to do it on the field – at half time in order to actually _play_. They did it all through the end of last season, and in a way, it reminds him of England’s problems in South Africa – only that was really a case of the other way around, and in the first two Tests, they didn’t get the wins to mask the problems.

Still, with a sigh, he sits back and grins at Dylan.

“Don’t worry – we’ll have it sorted by the time we come up to you lot.”

Dylan smiles.

“Of course,” he agrees, tone patronising. “…We’ll thrash you either way.”

Owen lets himself laugh aloud at that, competitiveness building inside him as he realises that he actually _really_ wants to beat Saints, and more than just for Sarries: for the pleasure of… well, beating Dylan. _Huh, that’s a new one._

Shaking the thought away, he cocks his head to watch Dylan in silence. It’s something he’s been doing more, lately: just appreciating the time he has to even _look_ at his boyfriend, never mind talk to him. They don’t have enough of it, they really don’t. He thinks Dylan’s getting used to the pauses, even if they’re often cut short by Dylan making some remark or another – certainly, he hopes Dylan doesn’t _mind_ it, and suspects he’d know if Dylan did.

“…If you’re trying to psych me out, it’s not working,” Dylan tells him, though his fondly amused grin suggests he knows that Owen isn’t. “You look too cute for that.”

Owen frowns immediately, disgruntled, and forces himself to straighten.

“I am _not_ cute.”

“You’re adorable,” Dylan tells him, a smirk tugging at his lips as Owen glares. “My lovely little Fazlet…”

“Fuck off,” Owen grumbles.

“ _Language_ ,” Dylan admonishes, and he looks so delighted at Owen’s increasing irritation that, as much as Owen tries to stay annoyed, he can’t quite manage it.

“Dyl?” he grits out anyway, trying to hold onto his composure and not start laughing.

“Yes, love?”

  1. _That’s a low blow._ Owen can feel the smile stretching over his face already at the endearment, and it’s a struggle to force out what he wants to say before he starts full on beaming. Dylan will _not_ win this; Owen refuses to let him. He will not – _not_ – lose this to Dylan.



“ _Fuck_ the _fuck_ off.”

 

Owen’s thoughts should be entirely on the game. There should be nothing else in his head, no distractions – only the shape of the pitch, the game plan, the restless shift of Mark next to him as he waits for his teammates to leave the tunnel. In a way, that’s true. The only problem is that he caught his first glimpse of Dylan in at least a month – in real life, at any rate – a matter of minutes ago, and his heart is still pounding a little from its consequent skip, his mind occupied by the thought of spending tonight and the next day with his boyfriend, of going on his first proper date with Dylan in the almost-year since they got together.

His teammates know, and they haven’t exactly gone easy on him – spent two full days teasing him about it when they found out – but he can’t bring himself to care. He’s going to see Dylan, and they’re going to be themselves, together, in public. That’s all he cares about.

Other than the match. Right now, rugby needs to be his top priority – though whether rugby comes before Dylan all of the time, he’s no longer sure, and he should think about that _later_ , not now. His teammates have a game to win, and he’s supposed to be fully focussed, watching and analysing and discussing anything with Mark that needs to be discussed.

If his eyes track Dylan’s movements when Saints run out onto the pitch – a long glance that he turns away from as soon as he realises that he’s doing it – then no one needs to know. It doesn’t matter, really. As long as he can compartmentalise while the game is in play, he’ll be fine. Even if he _has_ lost what little practice he’s had at doing so over the last while, he can manage it. (This is perhaps the one _single_ advantage of being injured in training. _Not_ that Owen wouldn’t rather be playing – and he’s also slightly disappointed that he isn’t getting a chance to go up against Dylan personally, but Jamie’s promised him, in a tone that spoke of suppressed laughter, to think of him at scrum time.)

“Try not to get _too_ distracted, Owen,” Mark mutters next to him, and Owen jumps involuntarily, tearing his gaze from Dylan, who he’s still been watching unconsciously.

Flushing, he rubs the back of his neck awkwardly and avoids Mark’s amused gaze.

“Sorry,” he mutters, faintly mortified.

Mark merely fixes him with a long, searching look, eyes crinkling at the corners as his lips press together, and Owen tries to pretend that the Irishman isn’t laughing at him internally.

…He’s not fooling anyone. Of course Mark is.


	12. Chapter 12

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well... Owen's injured. So's Dylan. I swear, it'd *better* be 10 days at MOST, or I will not be a happy bunny. (But it does make me laugh that they're still calling whatever's going on with Dylan a 'grumbly knee'...)
> 
> I think I might've said a few weeks ago that I would be competing last weekend - that was a lie, sorry. Competing started this weekend, and it's gone alright, to be fair. Still not training much, but we're managing. Two more weekends, then... Yeah. That'll be it. But 6N starts soon, which is... aaarrgghh! (Can't wait. Just didn't know how else to express that.) In other news, I'm now actually *rereading* something that is more than a handful of unfinished chapters long - to be fair, it's the only thing that I've ever properly re-read more than a small section of, even if it isn't actually a finished work yet. Exciting times, people, exciting times...
> 
> Does anyone else ever look up small problems they're having online just to see what they come up as symptoms of? Because according to several separate Google searches, I have aphasia. ...Quietly dubious about that one, to be honest.
> 
> Anyway, this chapter's quite nice. Is it short...? I don't think so, at least not compared to some others. I've sort of given up working out whether they're long or not. As long as they're around the same length (which I've managed far better than I expected), I'm happy.
> 
> Hope you've all had a good January so far, but without further ado:

Owen wakes, comfortably warm, mind still hazy with a blanket of sleep as he presses closer into the mattress and the body at his side. Dylan shifts but doesn’t wake, and Owen resettles himself, ready to go back to sleep, only to find that he’s too awake, too restless to close his eyes for more than a matter of seconds. He wants to get up, wants to _do_ something…

Memories of the game come slowly, then thick and fast as the score-line hits him: _shit_. It wasn’t a bad game for Saints, though – and certainly not for Dylan. Maybe it wasn’t brilliant for Sarries – _two yellows; come on, lads_ – until the last ten minutes, but they have an agreement. The score means nothing today. Not between the two of them. He hopes.

Rolling onto his side, he reaches for his phone and finds a text from Jamie:

‘Mark says make sure you don’t make anything worse’

He texts back a short affirmative, checking quickly through Twitter and Instagram (if only because he has nothing else to do right now), but nothing calls for his attention, so he drops his phone to the mattress at his side and turns his head back to Dylan to find dark brown eyes staring back at him. For a moment, he holds his breath, but then Dylan raises an eyebrow at him, a fond smile quirking at the edges of his lips, and Owen relaxes. As long as Dylan isn’t cut up about the match, he can be excited for the coming day.

“Hey,” he grins, leaning in for a brief kiss.

“Hey,” Dylan returns, and wraps an arm around his waist, tugging him closer; Owen goes willingly, pressing his face into Dylan’s chest because hot the weather may be, but it’s cooler than it was, and the warmth of Dylan’s body will never be uncomfortable, as far as he’s concerned. “Anything special you want to do today?”

Owen can’t help his mischievous grin.

“You?” he suggests, and Dylan laughs, loud and surprised, but the glint in his eyes speaks volumes to Owen of his approval. “Just… relax this morning. Date in the evening.”

Dylan’s smile widens, and Owen knows that the reminder stirs the same anticipation in Dylan as it does in him: the same heady swirl of _we’re-doing-this_ and _it’s-been-too-long_.

“Sounds good,” Dylan kisses him again, then draws away to climb out of bed with a pained groan.

“Aching?” Owen tries to sound sympathetic, but it doesn’t really work, and if there’s a little bit of smugness in his tone – Owen’s teammates, _friends_ , did that – then their relationship is far more stable than it was in the spring, and Dylan doesn’t seem to mind.

“Come on,” his boyfriend merely sighs, rolling his eyes. “Or you’ll have to make your own coffee.”

That gets Owen out of bed, though he pretends he doesn’t see Dylan’s smirk as he searches through his bag for the clean underwear he packed and slips the clothing on after finding it. A pair of shorts later, he follows Dylan downstairs and slumps at the table to watch as Dylan makes them both coffee. Normally it’d be him making it, but if Dylan’s going to do it without being asked, he’s happy to sit around and wait.

And it’s also nice to watch Dylan moving around his own kitchen, so comfortable and at home and, just like Owen, _topless_. Owen’s a gay man in his 20s, alright? It’s not his fault if his boyfriend’s body is ridiculously attractive… If anyone should be blamed, it’s Dylan, for being so good-looking in the first place. And for making Owen love him. Yes, it’s all Dylan’s fault.

But he should really stop staring.

“You alright, Faz?” Dylan peers at him, apparently a little concerned, and Owen blinks to refocus himself.

“Yeah,” he flushes brilliantly, well aware of both the burning in his cheeks and the growing warmth in… other places. “Fine.”

He’s an idiot, he really is – and it’s all Dylan’s fault. Owen can quite easily blame his boyfriend for everything that’s wrong with him, he thinks. He would, too, if any of it actually bothered him.

Eyeing him closely, Dylan sets the coffee down on the table.

“We can always reheat this in, say, half an hour,” he suggests lightly. “If you’re not too badly injured…”

Owen doesn’t even pretend to hesitate over what Dylan’s suggesting: just stands and tugs Dylan back towards the stairs. Coffee in half an hour sounds good.

 

Stepping out of the door of one of their homes together is… unfamiliar, but in a comfortable sort of way. Normally, when Owen leaves Dylan’s house – or Dylan leaves Owen’s – it’s alone, with no small amount of trepidation over who might spot them. This is only the second time they’ve gone out together, aside from during international duty: the second time they’ve gone out as just the two of them.

It’s the first time they’ve ever held hands in public. Owen finds himself gripping tighter to Dylan’s fingers at the thought, almost scared to let go, and Dylan squeezes back, the gesture just a little bit relaxing; it’s nice to know that he’s not the only one on edge, that this is a big step for both of them.

Owen’s never held hands with his past boyfriends in public. He’s never wanted to be outed, doesn’t think he’d have been comfortable to do it even if everyone knew, because two men holding hands is asking for trouble. With his fingers tangled in Dylan’s, he doesn’t feel the same worry, and probably it’s because they’re both big, muscular rugby players, and few people in their right minds would try anything against them – they’ll have more trouble later in the evening, when half the people on the street are drunk out of their minds – but he can’t help but feel that Dylan’s presence also calms him, lulling him into a sense of security.

That doesn’t stop the prickling apprehension on the back of his neck completely, though. This is big, bigger than anything else they’ve ever done outside of rugby – apart from _maybe_ Dylan’s move to England, but even that was rugby-related – and anyone around them could be the one to take a photo, tweet the news… Anything.

“Relax,” Dylan whispers next to his ear. “Everything’s going to be fine.”

Owen can’t help but huff a laugh.

“Aren’t I meant to be helping you?”

“You care more about what people think,” Dylan reasons. “…And you’ve had an entire adolescence to panic over how terribly coming out could go.”

Rolling his eyes, Owen concedes the point. Maybe he does care more, but he’s pretty sure that hasn’t helped him at all in his career. Everyone either seems to hate him, tolerate him or know him – and he’s really not sure where being out as gay will fit into that, and _maybe_ that bothers him more than he’s ready or willing to admit, but he doesn’t want to consider that right now.

“I’ve just thought,” he says instead, and continues before Dylan can make a joke about _overheating brains_ or whatever shit the man at his side can come up with, “When this _does_ get out… Your mates at Saints could get a bit of a shock.”

Dylan pauses for a second, frowning, and Owen waits patiently until he starts walking again.

“Shit, I should probably tell them…”

“No, really?” Owen can’t keep the sarcastic edge from his tone, earning a snort from Dylan in response. “You going to do that this week or something?”

Dylan shrugs, and Owen’s hand shifts a little with the movement.

“Yeah, probably – you wouldn’t mind if I told them about you?”

Surprised, Owen blinks; it hadn’t even occurred to him that he _might_ be bothered, in all honesty.

“Course you can,” he agrees easily. “They’re your teammates. I told Sarries about you.”

“You did,” Dylan nods, pausing for a moment to consider something before sighing. “I’m just… I can’t say I know how they’re going to take it, you know?”

Yes, Owen knows. He doesn’t have an answer, though, so he simply offers what he hopes is an encouraging smile, squeezing Dylan’s hand.

“I mean, I don’t _think_ they’ll mind too much,” his boyfriend continues. “But we don’t really talk about it, so… I don’t know who’d be likely to object.”

If anyone,” Owen points out softly, because no one at Sarries ever made a big deal about it – negatively, at least, though Jamie _did_ attempt to persuade him to be their ticket to London Pride over the summer.

Still, that doesn’t mean that every club’s the same, and some people had their reservations – luckily for no more than a week or two – so Owen doesn’t want Dylan to go in unprepared for backlash. He doesn’t think that’s too probable, fortunately – but it’s possible.

“Here,” Dylan tugs at his hand, pulling him to a stop and pointing to a small café that glows gently to their left. “It’s a nice place – and quiet.”

Owen lets Dylan lead the way, following the older man through the door and holding back the edges of a smile at the familiarly comforting aroma of baking. Dylan’s right: it is quiet, but there’s still a pleasant hum of chatter from all corners of the room, and far more than half of the tables are full. Still, once they’ve ordered, it’s fairly easy to find a small table for two at the edge of the room, away from the busiest spots, and when Dylan meets his eyes, Owen doesn’t bother to hide his smile anymore.

“Like it?” Dylan checks, and he nods, glancing around.

“Yeah, it’s… It’s comfortable.”

“Good,” Dylan smiles back at him, almost as helplessly as Owen, and the simple interaction feels so easy, so much less cautious than they’d normally attempt in public.

They don’t have to hide, and Owen loves it.

Dylan’s hand is resting on the table, and it takes only the briefest of hesitations to reach out and settle his own on top; it’s something they do fairly regularly in private, but never before where anyone could see them. Doing so in full view of strangers is… freeing, especially when Dylan shifts his hand to tangle their fingers together, casual and intimate at the same time.

They’re really doing this. They’re really going public, in their own way, really being open and uncaring and _themselves_ , and shit, Owen never expected such a sense of euphoria to accompany this moment, but pride is sparking in his chest and the urge to kiss Dylan right now is…

Why not?

Dylan squeezes his hand when he leans over to press their lips together, smile widening to a grin as he seems to come to the same realisation as Owen just has – that they can do that, now, and no one can stop them.

“Love you,” he murmurs, and Dylan’s grin intensifies further, a full-blown beam splitting his cheeks; Owen knows his own expression must match.

“Love you, too.”

They can say those words in public, in front of anyone. Yes, some people won’t like it, but fuck them, because Owen isn’t hiding from them anymore. He’s out, and so’s Dylan, and they’re together, so screw anyone who tries to stop them. Especially Israel Folau. Owen can’t help the savage anticipation that rises as he considers the upcoming Autumn Internationals. They’ll show him, whether they win or not. (But they will win. He swears it.)

 

It's two days later that he gets a call from James Haskell, of all people, in the middle of a kicking session. Blinking at the name on his phone screen, he cautiously accepts the call, then winces at the loud cheer that meets his ears.

“What the _fuck_ –?”

“Language, Faz!” Hask warns cheerfully. “Or I’ll tell your boyfriend you’ve been naughty.”

…Ignoring the weird and frankly slightly creepy connotations of what Hask has just said, it takes Owen a moment to register the words – and then another few seconds before he realises what they mean: Dylan’s told Saints.

“Erm…”

He searches for something to say, wracking his brains for the best response to this. Hask doesn’t sound bothered, which is… good. Great, even. But that doesn’t mean everyone’s fine with it.

“Dyl told all the lads?”

“Yeah,” Hask chuckles. “It was pretty good, to be fair – I reckon we got a good minute of silence out of that.”

That doesn’t tell Owen much about whether they took it well or not. It also doesn’t tell him what Dylan actually said, but he can ask Dylan that later. For now, he just wants to know if he should be the one calling to make sure that Dylan’s alright, or if he should relax and let Dylan call him.

“What did they say?”

For a moment, Hask is quiet.

“I don’t think anyone reacted badly, if that’s what you’re thinking – not where I could see them, at least,” Hask pauses, and Owen finds he doesn’t particularly like how serious the Saints player sounds. “You could’ve told me, you know, mate? I wouldn’t have…”

“Yeah,” Owen swallows, deciding not to admit that he really didn’t know how Hask _would_ react – or that, even though he had an idea it wouldn’t be bad, he didn’t trust the man not to tell everyone else in the Premiership.

“Seriously, mate. If anyone ever gives you any trouble… Either of you, that is – or both of you.”

Owen doesn’t really know what to say to that. He’s surprised by how touched he feels by the words, as much as he’d like to say that he’s more than capable of standing up for himself. Having someone so firmly in his corner is… comforting.

“Thanks,” he settles for finally, because there’s really nothing else to do but express his gratitude. “But no one had a problem with Dyl?”

“No one had a problem with either of you,” Hask assures.

“Right,” Owen tries not to sound too relieved. “Thanks.”

“No problem,” Hask’s voice brightens suddenly. “But really, I’m proud of you, mate. I mean, you’ve actually managed to stop being a moody Northerner long enough to –”

“Fuck off,” Owen tells him calmly.

Regardless of Hask’s jokes, the knowledge that Dylan now has his own support network in Saints is… brilliant. If this coming out of sorts goes badly, he wants Dylan to have more than a handful of people to fall back on – and having a team that’s aware of what’s going on in his life will hopefully help him immensely.

Owen doesn’t really know what he’d have done if Saints had taken it badly – let alone what Dylan would have done. He thinks he’s been trying to avoid considering that, let alone a worst-case scenario – which maybe isn’t like him, because being prepared is important – but he’s glad it hasn’t come to pass. He’s not sure he’d have handled it well enough himself to be able to support Dylan properly.

Scrubbing a hand over his eyes, he glances around the empty pitch and sighs. At any rate, he doesn’t have to worry, so that means that Dylan will be getting properly slaughtered for not being the first to tell him later. _Come on, Dyl – James Haskell?_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have this idea, right, that Owen's sort of low-key obsessed with Dylan - in a cute sort of way. Like, he's *allowed* to be because they're dating, and... Yeah, I'll try and show it a bit more in my actual writing instead of being lazy and just talking about it like this.


	13. Chapter 13

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello there! Feels like it's been a while... Back to my usual habit of doing this when I feel completely exhausted but am not yet ready to attempt sleep, even if the time of day is somewhat earlier. Officially finished my main area of competing, though - not my *best* events, but the ones I do most of the year - and I'm proud to say I have not yet broken down about how much I'm going to miss it.
> 
> How about that Ireland game, though??? It was a sprint from the moment I finished competing on Saturday to be ready to go and get home - managed to get there three minutes into the second half (watched the first part recorded afterwards), and was it a glorious game to watch! Sladey's tries, Faz's pass for Elliot, Manu back... The list goes on. Just hope Maro's alright.
> 
> In other news... You can officially win the Six Nations without winning a single game - and no, you don't all have to draw. Some of the other teams can win a game or two, and you can still lose two of them (just draw the other three). All down to bonus points... 
> 
> Er, *anyway*, this chapter is quite nice, I think? Takes place pre-November. At some point, I really need to work out where this is going to end - I'm just not very good at ending things. I don't like it. Ah well. I'll figure it out, right?
> 
> (At some point in the next few days, my mum's going to read the first trans!Owen fic I wrote, which I'm both insanely nervous and pretty excited about. Hopefully, she'll understand which bits I'm trying to communicate to her specifically in asking her to read it...)

When Eddie first calls Owen to offer him Co-Captaincy with Dylan, he feels completely blind-sided. Pride follows swiftly as he agrees, an unstoppable grin spreading across his face, but the emotion is halted mere minutes after hanging up by the worry of what Dylan will think of this, whether this will be seen as Owen moving to take over his role in the team entirely.

…What if that’s what Eddie’s planning?

He’s not sure what he’d do if Eddie picked him as Captain over Dylan – at least before the World Cup – but Eddie, he thinks, won’t put him in that situation: won’t put either of them in that situation. Dylan’s been playing well since he came back for Saints, and Owen doesn’t see any need for Eddie to change Captains a year out from Japan. Co-Captains is just another word for what they already have, right? With the added media responsibilities, like Eddie said.

Luckily, he doesn’t have long to dwell on his thoughts before his phone rings in his hand. He answers automatically, not even bothering to look at the name or number on his screen, and blinks in surprise when Dylan’s voice meets his ear.

“Congratulations, Co-Captain.”

Dylan’s tone is unconcerned – maybe even cheerful – and Owen relaxes instantly, smile returning as he readjusts the phone.

“You too,” he replies, and considers leaving it at that, but decides against it; he knows, by now, that clear communication is key in their relationship, and he doesn’t plan on getting into another fight like they did in the spring. “You’re not… upset?”

“Of course not,” Dylan assures him. “I mean… At the end of the day, if Eddie doesn’t want me as Captain, he doesn’t want me as Captain. Clearly, he still thinks I’ve got _something_ to give. If I get to captain the team with you…”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah,” Dylan confirms. “As long as nothing goes flipping on its head – might mess the team up a bit.”

Realising that he’s been standing in the middle of his kitchen since he first accepted the call from Eddie, Owen wanders through to the living room to drop down onto his couch, humming in soft agreement as he does so. He’s pretty sure that Eddie doesn’t want to see much changing as far as their leadership is concerned; he thinks the Australian would have said something if he did.

“Been thinking, though,” Dylan continues. “We should go out somewhere while we’re in Portugal. Just the two of us.”

Crossing one leg over the other, Owen considers the suggestion. The idea brings warmth to his chest even before Dylan finishes speaking, and he knows instantly that, whatever Dylan wants to do, he’ll agree to it.

“Are you asking me out on a date?” he teases anyway. “Confident, much?”

He laughs at his boyfriend’s exasperated huff, Dylan’s fondly irritated expression clear in his mind’s eye.

“Got anything particular in mind?” he asks when he’s calm.

“Coffees?” Dylan suggests. “Nothing huge. Just…”

“Time together,” Owen fills in, quietly serious but no less cheerful. “Yeah. Sounds like a good plan.”

Spending time with Dylan again will be a long-awaited blessing, especially once they get back to Pennyhill. Owen really can’t wait – and it’s only a matter of days, now. Soon, he’ll be able to speak to Dylan face-to-face once more – touch his boyfriend, enjoy the simple warmth of his presence – and the wait will all be worth it. Owen’s not the most patient of men, but Dylan… Dylan will always more than make up for the struggle of separation.

“Do you want to meet up before we join up with the rest of the team?” he finds himself suggesting. “Spend a bit of time in London?”

“Yeah?” Dylan hums quietly. “Sounds nice. What d’you say to spending the night at yours?”

Owen grins, instant anticipation rising. Any extra time with Dylan he can get, he’ll take. Especially if Dylan’s staying a night.

 

“Hey,” Owen grins, stepping back to let Dylan into the villa; they only saw each other an hour or two ago, but it feels like too long, and they may not be hiding anymore, but intimacy in front of the team seemed to awkward to even attempt, so… They didn’t even sit next to each other on the plane, haven’t so much as held hands since they joined up with the rest of the squad.

“Hey,” Dylan returns, glancing around with a smile before fixing his gaze solely on Owen. “Settled in well?”

“Yeah,” Owen shrugs. “Pretty decent place, I reckon.”

“It is, isn’t it?” Dylan nods, moving closer to rest his hands on Owen’s waist. “Your room a mess, or have you not gotten round to putting your things in there yet?”

“I’m not that bad!” Owen protests, rolling his eyes, but he can’t resist the urge to lean in and press his lips to Dylan’s – only to get rid of the smirk, _honest_ …

“Of course you’re not,” Dylan agrees, tone patronising, before their lips meet again.

“I’m not!” Owen draws back just a little to defend himself, but he doesn’t manage to get any more words out before Dylan steps closer, chasing the kiss, and whatever argument might have come to him is muffled entirely.

“It’s alright,” Dylan murmurs when they next break. “I love you anyway.”

Well… Owen can live with that, certainly. Tilting his head slightly, he deepens the kiss and brings a hand up to the back of Dylan’s head, the other settling on Dylan’s firm biceps. It really has been too long, having barely seen each other over the last several months; summer really spoilt them both, Owen thinks, and so did the Six Nations. It doesn’t matter, though, because they’ve got a whole month together now, and then it’ll be back into Camp in barely more than a month, so everything will be fine.

For now, he can just enjoy Dylan’s company. They’re here, they’re together, and they’ve definitely got a job to do, but there’s more than enough time to reserve a few moments together here and there. Like this.

Dylan is warm, familiar from the shape of his lips to the rigid lines of his upper arm, and the beginnings of heat curl in Owen’s abdomen as a hand grips his arse, pulling him closer –

“Oh my _fucking_ god!”

Ben Youngs’ tone is one of utter, scandalised shock, and Owen pulls away from Dylan immediately, twisting out of his boyfriend’s hold to stare at the Scrum-half. Ben stares back at them, mouth opening and closing without sound, and Owen shares an awkward glance with Dylan, unsure of what – if anything – to say.

“What’s wrong?” Jonny May calls from elsewhere. “Hang on, I’m just –”

A loud clatter interrupts his speech, and Owen can’t help his snort, even as he winces in sympathy.

“Jonny!” Fordy exclaims. “You’ve got to be kidding me…”

“Sorry…” comes Jonny’s muffled reply.

Owen turns away, trying to bite back a laugh. If there’s one thing he’s particularly looking forward to about sharing a villa with these lads, it’s Jonny winding up Fordy with his clumsiness. (Part of him wonders if he can’t team up with Jonny at some point, because Dylan is, unfortunately, right; he can be incredibly messy at times, and he really doubts that George will take kindly to it.)

“What’s wrong, anyway?” Jonny appears finally, panting, with a similarly out-of-breath Fordy on his heels.

“Dyl and Faz!” Ben exclaims, apparently undistracted by Jonny’s antics as he waves a hand at Owen and his boyfriend. “Making out! Right here!”

Jonny turns to stare at them, eyes wide and astonished.

“ _Really_?” he asks, astounded, as Owen finally manages to regain his straight face and folds his arms defensively.

He definitely isn’t nervous. Not at all. He hasn’t been secretly dreading his teammates finding this out. Why would he? What could go wrong (apart from everything)? It’s not like he’s spent most of his life in a hyper-masculine environment where words like ‘faggot’ get thrown around on an almost daily basis in the changing room (or did, until he came out to Sarries; now, someone slips up once a month and then apologises profusely).

The complete disbelief that he and Dylan have found themselves on the end of isn’t helping matters.

“Right here?” Fordy repeats. “Faz, you have your own room, mate. Stick to it.”

Thank fuck for Fordy.

“Sorry,” Dylan shrugs, slinging an arm over his shoulder. “Got a bit carried away. We’ll just –”

“No!” Ben holds out a hand, and Owen can’t help but tense at the sharpness in the exclamation. “We need to _talk_ about this. Since when are you two gay, for a start, and when did _this_ happen? And how the fuck does Fordy know about this and we don’t?”

Immediately uncomfortable, Owen shifts. Allowing his teammates to find out things like this is one thing, but having to explain it all is quite another. Around his shoulder, Dylan’s arm tightens briefly – a sort of subtle comfort – and he takes a deep breath as his boyfriend starts to talk in a brisk tone.

“Well, Owen’s been gay his entire life, I imagine, and I’m…” Dylan hesitates, glancing quickly in Owen’s direction before turning back to face their teammates, “…not. This happened about a year ago. Fordy knows because… Faz, how _does_ George know?”

“Er…” Owen shrugs, frowning, because he hadn’t thought to question it in the first place; Fordy simply knows things about him, and that’s that. “George…?”

“Would’ve been at Lensbury, I reckon,” Fordy offers. “When you were all miserable and that.”

“Oh,” Owen blinks. “Right.”

Of course. He remembers now, the memory bringing a flush to his face as he ducks his head. Looking back, it seems more than a little stupid that he got so worked up about it – but then, it led to them half-coming out, so… It can’t be that bad. Certainly, he’s happy with how it’s turned out so far, and now that Ben and Jonny are over the initial shock, they don’t seem upset. With any luck, the rest of the team will react the same way, whenever they find out – and the rest of the world, too.

 

“So…” Dylan begins, fingers drumming lightly on the table between them. “Coming up to one year since our first date.”

Owen blinks, cocking his head to the side as he considers the idea. Nearly one year…? Shit, it is. He’s not sure when they started marking the first date rather than the conversation the day before, but it’s a one-day difference, so either way… It’s nearly been a year since they got together, in their own awkward sort of way.

“Anything you want to do to celebrate it?” Dylan adds.

Biting his lip, Owen thinks it over. It’s either going to be mid-Test week, or on the weekend of a Test. _Why did they have to get together during the Autumn Internationals? Oh, that’s right – they wouldn’t have seen each other at any other times unless they were playing each other or in Camp._

“What day of the week?” he asks, even as he counts it through in his own head. “…Thursday?”

“Reckon so.”

With a quiet hum, Owen twists his lips.

“That’s going to be difficult.”

Dylan sits back, hands still resting on the wood in front of him, and Owen’s fingers twitch with the urge to make contact. After a brief hesitation, he reaches out, lacing their fingers together, and gets a flash of a grin from his boyfriend.

“We could just hold off until after the Australia game?” he reasons. “Unless you reckon you’ll be concussed again.”

Dylan laughs quietly at that.

“I’ll try not to be,” he promises.

“I’ll hold you to that,” Owen tells him, not quite able to keep the serious note from his tone; Dylan meets his gaze calmly, apparently unconcerned.

After a second, he relaxes, glancing around the small café that they’ve found themselves in. They’ve been here for a good hour, now, drinks long since finished and forgotten, and it’s probably time they head back to the team. Obviously, Dylan thinks so, too, because he stands with Owen’s hand still in his own, cracking his back with a quiet groan.

“We heading out?” Owen pushes himself from his seat at Dylan’s nod, slipping his phone into his pocket and, their drinks having been paid for on first ordering them, following the older man out onto the street. “…I love you.”

Dylan grins at him.

“I know.”

Groaning, Owen rolls his eyes. _For fuck’s sake…_

“Nah, I’m kidding,” Dylan tugs him closer, so that their clasped hands brush their clothing as they walk. “I’m kidding. I love you too.”


	14. Chapter 14

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OK, so this is definitely a very short one. I'm sort of getting close to having to write new chapters in the week before posting them instead of just editing them (which admittedly sometimes includes fairly big re-writes of sections), but... Eh. Should be fun, right? Not like I'll majorly procrastinate and get completely stuck over what to write and then end up not updating for ages, and then procrastinate more as a result...
> 
> Haha, of course not!
> 
> Aaanyway, I'm really not over the IREvENG game yet. I watched the whole thing again this morning (in the right order, this time), and, just... YES, LADS!!! (I am a bit worried about how the captaincy might change over 6N, to be honest - and how I'll have to fit that into this... But we'll see. Trying to separate my rugby/fan opinions from my let's-not-upset-their-relationship-outside-of-what-I-can-control opinions, and it's... not really working all too well. 
> 
> But yeah, this is a really short one (I should really probably keep this quite short, so it doesn't, y'know, end up *longer* than the chapter, but... I mean, I have something that was originally going to go in this one as well, but a) I need to do a LOT more work on it and b) I feel like I'd rather keep it separate. In other news, I am far too immature, and there's a certain line in this that I laugh over every single time I proof-read this (read: get Word to read it aloud to me while I play Spider on Microsoft Solitaire collection and pretend that my vision isn't really bad and no, I don't need to close my eyes, what are you talking about? Of course I don't!) - and I feel like there's a touch of irony in a pair of lines between Dylan and Owen (just a little, y'know, which everyone who has any idea of what happened in the AUS game will look at and go, 'yeah, no...').
> 
> Oh, and there's a YT channel called Squidge Rugby which I watch - the videos are incredible, and he just did a video on the IRE game from last weekend. It's quality stuff, and as guilty as I felt for laughing over a set of jokes he made... They were pretty funny. And he makes fun of Folau, so instantly forgiven for all the comments he made about Owen and Andy (admittedly the ones I was laughing over, not that his other jokes don't make me laugh). I highly recommend you go watch a few of those videos if you don't already. Just watch them at x0.75 and be prepared to pause a lot and rewind.

Owen holds his breath, heart in his throat as he waits for Gardner to make his decision. His hip is killing him, his body aching and pulling with every movement, but he really couldn’t care less right now. He needs this to be clean, needs Gardner to accept his attempt to wrap his arms. He knows it looks bad, but he _tried_ , and for once, he needs that to be enough. On the touchline, he can see Dylan waiting impatiently; around him, he’s aware of the anxiety of his teammates, the tension in the air, and he hates that he caused this, that his mistake may cost them the match.

He can’t afford to have let them down.

As Gardner turns towards them, his heart skips a beat. Unconsciously, his hands clench and unclench at his sides, and he leans in to hear what the referee has to say. _Please. Please, for fuck’s sake…_

“I believe there’s enough of a wrap on the far side…”

Owen barely manages a nod in gratitude before the relief and elation bubbles over. He turns away, punching the air in silent celebration; the victory is theirs, hard-fought and hard-won, and no one can take that away from them, no matter what anyone has to say about his tackle. They’ve won, and that’s all he cares about.

“You,” Dylan tells him when they stand face to face, “Are a lucky bastard, you hear me? Never again.”

“Never again,” Owen agrees, and for a moment, staring into Dylan’s eyes and seeing the triumphant exhilaration that gleams within them, it occurs to him that he’d really like to kiss Dylan, but the older man is whisked away before either of them can make a move.

Of course. They have duties as Co-Captains, now. He can shove his want for Dylan to the side for now, though he doesn’t think it’s going to stay hidden for the next few hours; at some point, probably in the changing room, they’ll take their moment. Who gives a fuck whether their teammates see them? They’re meant to be out, even if they haven’t burst into the open in a shower of _rainbows and glitter_ , and anyway, they just beat the Springboks. _Again,_ yes – but this one feels so much more… substantial.

He doesn’t know how much time passes until Dylan stands before him once more, grinning in the changing room amid the team’s raucous celebrations, but he doesn’t care. His first action would be the same no matter what: a hand out to grab hold of Dylan’s collar, tugging his boyfriend in for a rough, desperate kiss. In the back of his mind, he knows that there are so many men here who don’t even know he’s gay, just as many who don’t know about him and Dylan, but all he can think about is Dylan’s beam against his lips, the hands settling on his body to pull him impossibly closer for those few, brief moments before they part, breathless, to grin at one another.

“If that’s what I get when we beat the Springboks, I’m all for playing them every week,” Dylan teases.

Just a little embarrassed, Owen shrugs sheepishly. He’s hardly ashamed of kissing Dylan, even if it was rather impulsive. He’s an impulsive person, so… Anyone who has a problem can piss off right now.

Catching sight of the shocked expressions on his teammates’ faces over Dylan’s shoulder, the weight of what Owen has just done comes crashing down on him. Swallowing, he tears his gaze away from them to meet Dylan’s again, but his sudden discomfort must show on his face, because his boyfriend glances around the room at the wide eyes staring back.

“Something the matter, lads?” he asks calmly, though the hands that grip Owen’s shoulders tell a different story.

No one speaks. Owen holds his breath, heart pounding in his chest like he’s only just finished the game, and tries not to close his eyes or look away; he can’t back down. It’s just that the silence is getting to him, the tension creeping through his muscles and stiffening them one by one – or maybe that’s just the after-effects of the game settling in.

Is it just surprise? Are they not sure what to say? Or is it something worse – are they upset, disgusted, angry…? Owen doesn’t know, isn’t sure he _wants_ to know, but he needs to, he really does, and _fuck_ , he really shouldn’t have done that…

“Fuck me!” Elliot breaks the silence finally. “Is _that_ why you spend so much time up in your room together?”

Cheeks flaming, Owen cracks an involuntary smile – more one of relief than amusement. Dylan’s fingers loosen on his shoulders, one falling away a moment later as a small round of laughter ripples through the room. Shit, this could have gone so badly. His heart is still thundering against his ribs, his face burning with the knowledge of the risk he’s just taken, and even as Dylan steps away, he hears the shaky breath that his boyfriend lets out.

He’s not sure he’s ready to face that again; maybe he should talk to Dylan about that, but not tonight. Tonight, they celebrate.

 

Kyle Sinckler glances in Owen’s direction. It’s an innocuous action, harmless and barely noticeable, but it prickles at Owen’s skin anyway, even as he fights not to meet his teammate’s stare. That will just make it worse: make Kyle think he’s staring, and then the reasoning behind the glance will be strengthened in Kyle’s mind, will seem to be proven, because it will look like Owen’s actively looking at his teammates in the showers.

And he’s not. He’s not some fucking _pervert_ , just staring at any man who happens to be naked near him. He’s in a committed relationship, and he doesn’t even look at Dylan when he’s changing or showering, let alone the rest of the lads. It’s just that now they know he’s gay, he’s _untrustworthy._

He hates it.

Worse, it’s not just Kyle. It feels like a good half of the team is watching him, waiting to catch him in some sordid act, betraying their comradery, because he’s no longer just their teammate, their co-captain; he’s _gay_.

Gritting his teeth, Owen steps out of the shower and heads to his spot to change as quickly as possible, glad that he’s ended up between Fordy and Elliot: two men who, like his Sarries mates, haven’t decided that he has some sort of contagious disease since he kissed Dylan in front of them.

Shit, he regrets it. He doesn’t want to – doesn’t ever think he should be wishing that he didn’t kiss his own boyfriend, didn’t come out to a group of lads who mean something to him – but he does. He shouldn’t have done, should’ve just kept it low-key and not tried to rock the boat. The team’s still steadying the ship; they don’t need this to off-balance them all. If they capsize now, it’s all Owen’s fault.

He really, _really_ hates it.

“Faz, you alright?” Fordy peers over at him, apparently concerned, and Owen forces himself to relax.

“Fine,” he mutters as convincingly as possible (not very, he knows).

George eyes him, unimpressed, but doesn’t push the point.

It’s not like it was even worth it, either; since The Kiss, as it’s come to be known among his clubmates when the banter inevitably turns back to mocking him for it, he’s discovered that neither him nor Dylan are particularly keen on PDA. The most they’ve ever done in front of the team since is lace their fingers together during tactical meetings, and it frustrates Owen, to know that he’s sacrificed his teammates’ trust in him for _nothing_.

If this is his teammates’ reaction, he doesn’t think he wants to find out what everyone else will say – he should talk to Dylan about that at some point, but not now. They’ve got to prepare for the All Blacks. They beat the Springboks, and they can do the same to New Zealand, as long as they knuckle down this week and _focus_. Owen needs to put his sexuality out of his mind and worry about it later; he just hopes the rest of the boys can – and will – do the same.


	15. Chapter 15

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (EDIT: just realised that I'd written Mako into this and he wasn't around during the November Tests, so... I think juggling Six Nations and this is confusing me... Rewrote it a bit for Maro - mostly the same, but I've changed a few of the words, not just swapped a 'k' for an 'r'. Not the update I was intending this weekend - and hopefully there'll still be another one, but... There we go. Sorted.)
> 
> So... A little nervous about this one - which is to say, more so than normal. Sort of exploring the nasty side of rugby players - and I think athletes in general, particularly in confrontational sports - but not in the way you're probably expecting.
> 
> Very pleased with the Sarries victory yesterday - I got a bit nervous during the first half, but they pulled through. Definitely proud of them for that. 
> 
> In other news, I'm trying to juggle with wanting to be honest with a friend of mine about being trans (he doesn't like trans people), or keeping my secret safe from the wider school and retaining his friendship - which I think isn't impossible if I told him... Just highly unlikely. That's fun. Got a week off at the moment, so in theory, I *should* be able to update next weekend, but... Eh. No promises. 
> 
> (I also maybe made a comment to a friend (who's something of a fan of George Ford) about really liking the Manu/Slade centre pairing without realising that saying so suggested that I actively didn't like having Fordy at 10, but... Um, sort of meant that with the assumption of having Faz there, not... Yeah. I should really explain that to them. And I *am* going to. Just probably not very well as I will doing it indirectly, because I can't handle awkward situations at all, least of all when it involves someone whose opinion I actually care about. So. Um. Sorry 'bout that...)
> 
> And I'm going to stop venting on here now and let you lot suffer reading this. Enjoy!

By Thursday, Owen’s patience is at an all-time low. He does his best to hide it – stays cheerful around his teammates when he can and avoids them when he can’t – but every look, every stumble in conversation, every considering examination of what he’s doing, what Dylan’s doing, how close they’re standing and the way that the backs of their hands brush as they walk across the pitch… It’s wearing him down.

He’s even losing his temper with Dylan. It’s nothing big: just a slightly-too-harsh come-back when his boyfriend jokes about the state of his part of their suite, or a snapped ‘ _quiet!_ ’ when he’s trying to watch some game or another. It’s enough to leave Dylan blinking at him in bemusement, he knows – has seen the expression far too often recently and grown to expect the guilt that bubbles up in response – but not enough to get Dylan angry in return, or actually prompt Dylan to ask.

…Maybe that’s just because Dylan doesn’t want to deal with him getting defensive and angry, or maybe he’s just not that bothered by it. Either way, Owen’s fellow Saracens don’t have the same problem.

“Faz, let’s have a talk,” Jamie appears out of nowhere as Owen is walking through Pennyhill, slings an arm around his shoulders and wheels him about to face the other direction.

“The fuck, Jinx?” he snaps, immediately irritated as he shrugs his clubmate away.

“…About that,” Maro adds – and _shit_ , where did he come from?

(Seriously, how does a 6’ 5” Lock manage to sneak up on him? In truth, it just annoys him more.)

“What’s ‘that’?”

He deflates slightly as he speaks, can feel himself doing it, because there’s no one else around besides the three of them, no one who will frown at him just _subtly_ enough that they can’t be accused of appearing angry. Only cautious, suspicious, and no one’s about to call anyone else out on that because they’re all too busy doing the _same_ _fucking thing…_

“You getting all pissed off with everyone,” Maro elaborates.

Hesitating, Owen forces himself to calm down properly and appraise them both. They stare back, Jamie folding his arms for good measure, and Owen almost considers pulling rank on them, but…

“Whatever,” he grumbles. “Just make it quick.”

_Fuck Jamie for being so cheerful._

“Great!” the Hooker rubs his hands gleefully, continuing back in the direction Owen’s just come with a slight spring in his step; Owen follows reluctantly, faintly considering making a break towards the lifts – his original destination – before dismissing the half-thought with the internal admission that maybe this is for the best.

Owen finds himself being ushered into Jamie’s room to the assurance that Elliot won’t be around for a while, growing increasingly defensive while he waits for whatever his clubmates have to say. Luckily for all of them, he doesn’t have to wait long.

“Who’s giving you problems?” Maro asks as soon as the door is closed, and Owen can only blink, surprised. “You’ve been moody since you kissed Dylan. Who’s giving you problems?”

Oh. _Oh._ Owen hadn’t realised his mood change had been so obvious; certainly, this wasn’t the conversation he expected to be having with these two. Maybe a short chat about how he may be Co-Captain, but that doesn’t mean he’s above a bollocking from the rest of the senior lads… but not _this_.

“No one,” he mutters – which is true, in a way, because he can’t exactly give a specific name. “No one’s said anything.”

…Which is, in a way, the problem. It’s like the elephant in the room, an awkward topic that everyone would much rather forget about, but which Owen and Dylan seem to forcefully remind them of. At least, that’s what Owen suspects is going through his teammates’ minds. He doesn’t exactly know the details, just the effects.

At any rate, he can’t just run and hide behind Maro and Jamie. He’s the fucking _Co-Captain_.

“Really.”

It’s not a question; Jamie doesn’t believe him in the slightest.

“What’s got you so cranky right now, then?” Maro presses, because apparently, they’re serious enough about this to properly team up on him. “You’d think you’d be happier now that you don’t have to hide a relationship from the rest of the lads…?”

Irritatingly, Owen can’t quite meet either of their gazes. Folding his arms, he stares fixedly at the floor and tries to think of an excuse, but nothing comes, and he’s not really in the mood to spin a complete lie to his friends.

“It’s… Look, it’s nothing deliberate,” he sighs – and almost regrets the admission when Jamie lets out a small, triumphant sound. “They just…”

He shakes his head.

“More than one person?” Jamie’s eyes narrow. “Who, Faz? We’ll talk to them, mate –”

_For fuck’s sake…_

“You offering to fight the whole team?” Owen bites out sarcastically. “They don’t trust us, do they? Me and Dyl – we’re not safe to shower with anymore, because we might be checking them out, like we’re not in a _committed_ relationship. Like they’re actually _fit_.”

The last part is an afterthought, but Maro chuckles quietly, Jamie raising an amused eyebrow.

“So you _are_ checking them out?” the Hooker presses, subsiding when Owen shoots him a flat, irritated stare. “Sorry, mate. They’ll get over it – they’re just a little thick.”

Shrugging, Owen shoves his hands into his pockets and says nothing, focused on trying to find a way to back out of this conversation.

“If anyone _does_ say anything, though…” Maro claps him on the shoulder. “We’ve got your back, Faz.”

Owen presses his lips tightly together, nodding in quiet gratitude – and internally vows to deal with any outright comments himself, far away from the rest of the team. He can handle himself. He’s more than capable of it – more than capable of taking anyone on this team down a peg or two – and he certainly doesn’t want anyone to start thinking he can’t fight his own battles.

 

In the week after the game against the All Blacks, all Owen wants is to get back on the field and _win_. They were so close – so _fucking close_ – and it irritates him, gnaws at his bones: a constant reminder that they _could’ve_ done it, some would say _should_ , but they didn’t. He needs to go out and smash Japan, needs to make up for it.

The looks haven’t stopped, either, and it’s wearing on his patience, itching under his skin as he does his best to go about his normal business without paying attention to what everyone else is clearly thinking.

Really, he just needs to demolish a team out on the field, and then he’ll be fine. Eddie, apparently, has other plans, because next thing Owen knows, he’s on the _fucking bench_.

The expression on Dylan’s face when he emerges from his own meeting with Eddie tells Owen everything he needs to know. At least he’s not the only one, right? (Like that makes it any better. He wants to _play_.)

It almost makes Owen feel worse for what he’s about to say, but he’s been holding off on it for long enough, and Dylan needs to know. When Dylan drops down next to him on the couch in their shared suite, groaning in frustration, he draws in a deep breath and twists to face his boyfriend, tucking one leg up under his other knee. Dylan glances at him immediately, frowning, and he can only twist his lips in faint apprehension.

“I know that look…” Dylan sighs, scrubbing his eyes with one hand. “You’re going to say something I won’t like.”

Grimacing apologetically, Owen shrugs. Yes, he is; it feels like such a backwards step, and he hasn’t even said it yet. There’s still time to back out, though…

He can’t back out of this.

“I don’t think…” he hesitates for one more moment. “I don’t think I’m ready to come out to everyone.”

The stare that Dylan fixes him with is blank, uncomprehending.

“…What?”

“I don’t –”

“Yeah, I got that,” Dylan waves the words away impatiently, and Owen knows instantly that this isn’t being taken well. “I just… What the _fuck_ , Owen?”

“After the game against South Africa, when we –”

“And you’re only bringing it up _now_?”

A little frustrated, Owen nods. Will Dylan just stay quiet and listen? It’s hard enough to talk about – to admit that yes, he _is_ a bit scared, alright? – without constant interruptions from Dylan (and if it continues, he might start to get annoyed, and that will not – _not_ – go down well).

Taking a deep breath, he clears his throat to continue when Dylan doesn’t say anything else (only stares at him with a dark frown that Owen doesn’t like in the slightest). _Shit, Dylan isn’t happy with him_.

“Look, I just didn’t feel comfortable,” he tries to explain. “Not knowing what anyone thought about it, it was…”

He doesn’t quite know how to put words to the quiet anxiety that had filled him, so instead he simply trails off, shrugging. He’ll mention the looks in a bit, see what Dylan thinks of them, if he’s just over-sensitive and making it up in his head, or if it’s really happening.

“You’re the one who kissed me,” Dylan points out, because _of course_ he’s going to get defensive about this when Owen isn’t even accusing him of anything, is just trying to get out his own worries and doubts. “It wasn’t me who decided, ‘Oh, let’s out both of us by kissing my boyfriend right after a match’.”

“Yes, and now I regret it!” Owen snaps through gritted teeth – and admittedly he’s a little short of patience at the moment, because this is a touchy subject that he’d _really_ rather not talk about, not expose a weakness in. “Alright?”

“You regret kissing me?” Dylan’s eyebrows rise. “Really? Not even sure why I’m surprised, the way you’ve been acting lately.”

“That’s not what I meant, and you know it,” Owen tries to backtrack – why the _fuck_ is he the one backtracking? “For fuck’s sake, Dylan –”

“Don’t get angry with me, Faz,” Dylan holds up his hands. “ _I_ didn’t just say I regret kissing you. Though maybe I do, actually, now you mention it. Not sure it’s worth some of the shit I have to put up with from you.”

Owen’s face flushes just a little, even though the comeback is childish and far below both of their usual standards. It’s not about that, really. It’s more… Dylan just needs to listen and accept that yes, Owen understands it was his fault, but he doesn’t want to do it again. Clearly, Dylan’s too much of a dick to do that right now, though. (Maybe it’s the pressure of being put on the bench, because unlike Owen, he doesn’t have the safety net of having a place in the starting line-up regardless of how his rival performs, but really, Dylan’s an adult. He should be able to compartmentalise by now.)

“You’ve never complained before,” he retorts.

“Yeah, well, if you hadn’t noticed, I’ve got pretty low standards when it comes to men!” Dylan fires back. “Or maybe I just felt sorry for you.”

Owen’s had enough. Dylan doesn’t need to go on at him like this, doesn’t need to take shots like that and suggest that Owen’s deserving of _anyone_ ’s pity. All Owen wanted was to have a civil discussion about something that’s been bothering him, and now Dylan’s being a fucking dick. Screw admitting his uncertainties to Dylan; his boyfriend needs taking down a peg or two before they can have _that_ conversation, apparently.

“What the fuck would you feel sorry for me about?” he sneers, already scrambling for something to throw in Dylan’s face, no matter how weak or ridiculous it is. “You’re the one who had to move country ‘cos you couldn’t get a place in your home national team!”

…Not exactly the greatest insult ever, but it’s the best thing he could think of quickly.

Apparently, though, it’s good enough, because Dylan’s cheeks redden, and Owen sees his boyfriend’s hands clench into fists. _Good._ Dylan had _better_ be pissed off, because Owen is, and he wants Dylan to be as agitated as he is right now.

_The fuck have you got for me, then?_

“Oh, I don’t know,” Dylan shrugs, falsely casual, and Owen prepares himself for whatever piss-poor excuse Dylan can clutch at. “It’s a long list. Must’ve been a rough childhood – parents didn’t mean to have you, dad cared more about rugby than about you, mum probably cared more about your dad…”

Fierce anger and mortification sting behind Owen’s eyes, and he blinks them back as prickling defensiveness tightens his jaw. Dylan’s just being an utter arse, and this isn’t a sore spot. It isn’t. It’s just that he didn’t expect Dylan to think of something like that, to go for such a low blow. It’s not like it’s even true; Owen has a great relationship with his parents, and yeah, maybe every once in a while, he gets struck by how much like a mate he sometimes treats his dad compared to others around him, but… He’s happy like that. It’s what he’s used to, and he wouldn’t trade it for anything; certainly, it doesn’t mean his parents are any less loving than anyone else’s.

Dylan isn’t done.

“And shit, Andy didn’t exactly hesitate to leave you behind while he fucked off to Ireland with the rest of the family, did he? Maybe I just wanted you to feel like someone actually cared about you more than anyone – or any _thing_ – else for once in your life! Just a favour for the team, really, which you’d know if you were even a half-decent Captain –”

Owen’s heard more than enough. Hands tightening into balls to stop them shaking, he pushes himself from the couch and storms towards his bedroom. He doesn’t even have anything to say – can’t think through the deep-seated rage (and humiliation) that burns inside him.

None of it’s true, that’s the worst of it. None of it’s true, but it’s hitting him hard anyway, and he thinks maybe it’s because it’s _Dylan_ saying it, of all people. That just makes him all the more angry. Of-fucking-course _Dylan_ ’s opinion means more to him, right when he least wants it to. He’s far too attached, clearly – should never have gotten so close, because obviously, it wasn’t worth it. If Dylan can’t even handle a conversation about not coming out without turning to petty insults (and maybe Owen did the same, but _that_ thought can fuck right off), then Owen doesn’t see why he was ever interested in the first place.

“Oh, I’m _sorry_. Am I making you feel weak?” Owen can hear the mocking tone even without turning, even as he wrenches his bedroom door open. “I forgot you don’t like to be reminded of how fucking pathetic –”

“Shut the fuck up!” he yells, whirling to face his boyfriend, the man who’s just thrown a good half of his emotional vulnerabilities in his face and had the fucking _gall_ to laugh at them.

_Who the fuck does Dylan think he is?_

Realising that he has nothing else to say, nothing with which he can turn this all back onto Dylan, he turns and flees to the safety of his own room, slamming the door behind him.

For several seconds, he stands still, gasping in deep lungfuls of air as he fights the urge to go back out and hit Dylan right where he knows it will hurt the most. When he’s finally got the impulsive side of his anger under some control – something he’s been working on since the summer – he collapses onto his own bed and squeezes his eyes tightly shut. Shit, this is why he doesn’t like showing weakness in the first place; it always gets turned around and used against him (and alright, so he doesn’t like being vulnerable at all, really – so what?). It’s an inevitable fact of life that it will happen.

But _fuck_ , there are insecurities in that bundle of degradation that Dylan’s thrown at him that he’d completely forgotten he had. He loves his parents and his siblings – loves them all, even though he doesn’t always see them much – but out of him, Elle, Gracie and Gabe… He’s the ‘accident’ – the one who caused his parents problems simply by being born, the burden that his dad had to bring along to training. He’s the one they had to protect their reputations because of, the one for whom they had to go through all that paperwork to get his surname changed…

And he’s gay. And when he was younger, that was just the icing on the cake, as far as he was concerned. It would just be another way for him to be a strain on the family, on his parents’ friendships and jobs, and he’s probably upset them enough over the years without adding this to it. He knows it’s all irrational, knows it makes no sense – if only because there’s _nothing_ wrong with being gay – but he didn’t know it when he was younger, before he came out, and since when are humans ever sensible? It wasn’t sense behind his decision to try things with Dylan in the first place, that much he knows (even if he forgot it, for a lot of the time).

He’s never even told Dylan about any of that – doesn’t even remember _ever_ consciously recognising bits of it as genuine worries, though hearing them back, he knows they were – and yet his boyfriend knows about them. Is this the price Owen has to pay for getting close – properly close – to someone? If so, he’s not sure he wants to.

Scrubbing a hand over his eyes, he squeezes them tightly shut. Today has been awful, and he honestly just wants to go to sleep; first, he gets dropped to the bench, then he has to admit that he doesn’t want to come out, and now… this. He’s meant to be calling his mum tonight, of all things, but… yeah, no. That’s not happening.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ...And I feel I need more notes to explain myself. I'm sorry? I just can't let things go *well*, y'know? And I am in NO way suggesting that Owen is at all insecure about his relationship with his parents, but... For the sake of the plot, guys, come on... Did you see Andy, Colleen and Gabe watching the France game, though? It was so cute! I think my heart melted. 
> 
> (Kidding. It's granite. Hence the above.)


	16. Chapter 16

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well... Shit. (Sorry for the language...) Kinda tempted to write something specifically about that game, now, but we'll see. Just... Whyyyyy??? 1. Sarries lose badly to Gloucester (I think the scoreline sort of flattered them.) 2. Canes lose badly to Crusaders (Again, scoreline flattered them.) 3. *sigh...* C'mon, lads...
> 
> Anyway, I hope you're all well, and I'm sorry if you've somehow managed to retain a positive mood after that, because with any luck, it won't stay that way. After that impromptu edit of the last chapter an hour or so ago (still can't believe I forgot Mako was injured...) - Enjoy!

****

Owen forces himself to remain civil with Dylan through the days leading up to the match against Japan, but he can’t entirely block out the wariness that edges at his mood whenever he sees his boyfriend – are they even still together? Was the fight bad enough to break them up without either of them actually having to say it? ( _Yes_ , Owen thinks. _Fuck, yes, it was._ )

At least there’s one thing they seem able to agree on – not that they ever talk about it, just act in vague cooperation over it – and that’s that the team is the top priority. In training, around the rest of the lads, they need to go on in a manner as close to normal as they can manage – and they must be doing fairly well, because no one appears to pick up on the change in behaviour. In a way, it makes Owen glad that they were never very openly affectionate, because their contact may have lessened somewhat, but it was barely noticeable to anyone other than the two of them before, so…

Apart from Eddie, apparently. Owen does not appreciate being called into a meeting with the Australian to be asked what’s going on in his personal life, but he can’t really blame Eddie for that. It could, after all, affect the team. Regardless, he sits and explains, in as matter-of-fact a tone as he can manage, that they’ve had an argument, that they’re not really talking outside of professional duties, and bears Eddie’s disapproving frown until he’s dismissed with a sigh.

On the way out, however, he has to pause, a thought that’s been circling in his head for the last few days striking at the forefront of his mind.

“Eddie…” he hesitates, wishing he hadn’t said anything when Eddie stares at him expectantly – had just walked out and kept this horrible insecurity to himself, locked away where it should be.

Where no one can use it against him.

“Is there – Is there anything I need to do to improve my leadership?” he asks quietly, glancing out into the corridor to make sure no one’s about to walk past while he’s standing here with the door half-open.

Eddie is silent for several moments, examining him closely. Owen waits, wondering why he couldn’t just leave it, couldn’t just stay silent. He shouldn’t have brought it up, shouldn’t have admitted this weakness – but it’s such a glaring flaw that he’d rather Eddie know he’s aware of it than simply assume he’s oblivious to his inadequacies, rather be able to fix it with some assistance from someone who is professionally obliged to help him, so that no one can ever use it to pull him down.

“I don’t think so, mate,” the coach tells him finally. “I’ve been very impressed with how your Captaincy is coming along. You’re a lot calmer, and your leading the team well.”

Swallowing, Owen manages a grateful nod.

“Thanks,” he mutters.

He heads through the hotel to join his Sarries teammates, stiffening when he spots Dylan talking to Jamie. He’s on the verge of turning, heading back to his room – not just the suite, but _his room_ , where he can hide from Dylan and all his other problems like a _fucking coward_ – but it’s too late; Loz has already spotted him.

“Hey, Faz!” the Centre waves him over, beaming, an Owen remembers that Alex is set to start at the weekend.

“Alright, mate?” he tries for a weak smile: just about manages it. “Looking forward to the match, I guess?”

“Yeah!” Loz laughs, clapping him on the arm. “Better watch out, mate – I’ll be coming for your shirt.”

Owen snorts, glad to have enough faint amusement at the comment not to have to fake it completely.

“We’ll see about that.”

To his left, Dylan is wrapping up his conversation with Jamie as quickly as possible, and Owen can’t help but feel hyperaware of everything the older man is doing and saying. His cheeks are just a touch too warm, his heart pounding a little too close to the surface and half a beat too fast. He doesn’t know how long he can simply not interact with Dylan before his clubmates notice, but he’s not in the mood to field their questions.

Luckily, Dylan steps away within a minute, turning to leave and brushing Owen’s back with his hand as he passes. Owen glances around at him, something that feels sickeningly like hope rising inside him, but Dylan is staring straight ahead, face blank apart from a set jaw and a slightly angry crease in his forehead, and Owen knows that, like everything else they’ve done in front of the team since their fight (which is to say, sat next to each other without screaming in one another’s face), it’s just for show.

Because Dylan has no other reason to want to touch him, communicate with him, even be anywhere near him. It’s all for the team, maybe also for the sake of Dylan’s International career, because the second he’s no longer useful as Captain, his position becomes horribly precarious. Owen means nothing to Dylan – not other than a means to an end. And he’s fine with that. Really, truthfully, he is. Dylan means nothing to him either. He just wants to win, and for that, he needs harmony.

Maybe he should be more cut up about this. Maybe he is, and it’s all just hidden beneath the still-simmering anger and initial hurt. Maybe, in a few days’ time, it will sink in that he might have just lost Dylan forever. For now, though, it’s not really registering, and he likes it like that. He can focus on the game more easily, he thinks. Less distraction equals better attention, only it doesn’t really feel like that when he’s trying to work something out for the team. If anything, he feels _more_ distracted, and it bothers him.

He shouldn’t be this reliant on Dylan.

And the looks _won’t fucking stop_. Owen feels like he’s been going insane, constantly twitchy and paranoid, waiting for someone to call him out on whatever he’s doing that seems to be bothering them all. Maybe they would if he weren’t Co-Captain. Maybe they’re resentful of him because they don’t feel that they can address him like anyone else, can’t express their concerns about his sexuality because he’s a senior player. They should be able to. Just… Owen wishes they didn’t _have_ concerns.

“You alright, Faz?” Loz asks, slapping him on the arse to gain his attention – just as Manu walks past and shoots them a quick look.

Owen does his best to ignore it.

…Jamie does not.

“There something wrong, mate?” Jamie calls after Manu’s retreating back, and Owen’s heart sinks, his eyes closing of their own accord as he realises what Jamie’s about to do.

“What?”

Owen cracks open one eye, and then the other, to watch Manu turn back around.

“You got a problem with Faz?” Jamie presses. “He upset you? You can talk to him, you know? Go on, why don’t you tell him what he’s done?”

“Dunno what you’re talking about,” Manu insists, but he’s walking closer, now.

_Stop,_ Owen thinks. _Turn around, go back the other way. Jamie’s just messing with you._

He’d say it, too, if his mouth would work.

“Why’d you give him that look, then?”

“Jinx,” he manages finally, but his voice is too quiet, and Jamie glances at him only briefly before continuing.

He doesn’t even have the authority to stop his friends from arguing with the rest of the team over him – never mind the fact that he’s the sole cause of this disruption, that it’s all his fault. Clearly, Jamie doesn’t think he can handle himself, doesn’t think he’s strong enough to stand up for himself if he needs to.

Maybe Jamie thinks that him ignoring every look is just a sign of weakness.

“I…” Manu shrugs, waving his hands aimlessly. “Just… Bit weird, isn’t it?”

“What’s a bit weird?” Loz asks stiffly, because apparently, _he_ ’s joining in as well.

Has Owen lost all ability to look after himself in his teammates’ eyes?

“You, you know… When he’s…”

“Gay?” Kruiso finishes pointedly, folding his arms. “You got a problem with that, mate?”

Manu looks around at them all, bewildered and a little unsettled.

“Well, not really… I just –”

“Not really?” Jamie cuts him off. “You either do or you don’t. And if you do, then I think we’ll all have a problem with you!”

“Jinx!” Owen snaps, a flush rising in his cheeks as he finally manages to lift his voice to the required volume. “Stop it. All of you. It’s fine.”

“It’s not fine!” Loz protests. “If he –”

“You think I can’t look after myself?” Owen asks him steadily – well, no, not steadily; his voice is trembling at a barely noticeable level, thick with emotion that he can’t suppress: humiliation, anger, frustration. “If I have a problem with it, I’ll call it out myself. Manu, ignore these lot. They’ve got their heads stuck so far up their own arses they can’t see sense for the life of them.”

Manu snorts quietly, nodding and continuing on his way, and Owen watches him go, waiting until he’s out of sight to round on the Saracens contingent of the England team.

“ _Never_ ,” he starts, the single word quivering with rage and indignation as they stare at him, equal parts shocked and offended, “ _Do that again_. I can deal with myself – I don’t need _any_ of you to go around picking fights with the rest of the team – _our team_ – because you think you need to have the higher moral ground or some shit like that. You don’t, you never will, so never again, or God help me –”

He cuts himself off, sucking in a sharp breath, and straightens his back. He isn’t really sure what he’d finish that sentence with – doesn’t really want to, would rather leave it hanging.

“But he –”

“You think I can’t handle myself?” Owen barks. “Why’s that, then? Is it because I’m gay? I need all you straight lads to protect me? Because everything’s about me being gay, isn’t it? Fucking _everything_.”

His own room to hide it is, then. Before he does something he regrets (more than everything he’s done so far this week, at any rate).

In the end, Owen is fairly sure that it is anger driving him when he comes off the bench against Japan: anger at Dylan, at himself, at his own lack of independence, at their failing relationship, at the team’s shortcomings… He’s so used to feeling constantly provoked that it isn’t a hot fury anymore; instead, it sits in his bones – a cold, calculated rage – and drives him onwards as he martials the team next to George (whom he’s so far only given a vague congratulations, in the tunnel before the game, because he’s been so selfishly caught up in his own problems).

“You alright, mate?” George asks him afterwards, and Owen tells himself that the concern in George’s eyes – when his younger friend should be celebrating both his 50th Cap and his win _as Captain_ – is merely a mark of Owen’s own bad friendship qualities.

Because it’s not enough that he’s already upset all of the lads from Saracens – though Manu seems more relaxed around him – because he couldn’t keep his cool when they were just trying to stick up for him (he doesn’t need them to stick up for him); he just has to go and ignore this incredible achievement. He’s spent the last week either avoiding the men whom he’s closest to on this team or outright arguing with them – or maybe it’s more than the last week, for all he knows.

Maybe he’s been neglecting his friends in favour of Dylan – or maybe he’s just looking for more reasons to end whatever they have left between them. Who knows?

“Yeah,” he forces a smile. “Congratulations, mate – brilliant achievement.”

George beams.

“Thanks, Faz.”

_Yeah_ , Owen tries to keep his smile from wobbling. _Who needs boyfriends?_

It’s just that telling George that he _is_ alright has really hit him with the realisation of how _not_ alright he is. Right after a game, when endorphins, adrenaline and fuck knows what else are still pumping through his body, it really isn’t helpful to be thinking about this – how much he misses Dylan, how much the uncertainty is killing him – especially when he still has a post-match dinner to go to. His eyes are stinging already, his chest tightening as the lump in his throat that he seems to have grown used to over the past few days grows.

Ducking his head, he turns away from George and tries not to flee too hurriedly to the changing room.

Though he tries to convince himself that it’s to avoid raising suspicions in the team, the decision to sit next to Dylan is really more out of habit than anything else; he’s become used to seeking out Dylan’s company over the last year. Four times over the course of the evening, he opens his mouth to speak, then closes it again with no idea what he wants to say, let alone how to say it. At one point, their hands brush, and Dylan almost knocks over his drink in his haste to move away.

He goes to sleep more mentally and emotionally drained than physically.


	17. Chapter 17

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well... That was something of an interesting (if slightly devastating) match - or even set of matches. As my (Scottish) Dad described the ENGvSCO game: 'mutual humiliation', which seemed rather apt. Still can't believe Ireland didn't score for over 80 minutes - that's actually ridiculous, and I'm now torn between being terrified of what Wales are going to do and absolutely hating them.
> 
> But there we go.
> 
> Nice to see George getting a try on his birthday, right (and I still have no idea what Eddie was thinking, not bringing him on during the Wales game)? I'm just desperately hoping that Dylan will get fit soon and we can have the co-captain situation back so that Owen's under, y'know, a tad less pressure.
> 
> But anyway. I've probably left this hanging a little too long - it's been, what? Three weeks since I posted the chapter of their fight? So here we are - and it's longer than normal, I'm pretty sure. I mean, I sort of hinted at what's going to happen in the piece I did from Dylan's PoV... ;) Also, I'm sort of thinking I will write a Brad/Beauden thing - and there's an easy ship name there in Braden, but I'm trying to resist the temptation to use that too much.

Waking up at too-early-in-the-morning to a knock on his door is a ridiculously disorientating experience, Owen finds. It’s still far too dark, both inside and out; he hasn’t actually changed out of the clothes he got back to the hotel in, past dropping his shirt and jacket on the floor beside the bed; and Dylan isn’t with him. Not that Dylan’s been with him at all over the last few nights, or even that they actually share a bed regularly (Eddie would probably kill them). It’s just that Owen’s let himself get too emotionally open, too reliant on someone other than himself to maintain his mental state, and normally when he misses Dylan like he did yesterday, or vice versa… They make an exception.

“Faz?” Dylan’s voice is stilted: stiff and uncertain, muffled by the door.

“What?” he croaks, still rubbing the sleep from his eyes – too disorientated to stop his automatic response.

“…Can we talk?”

Dropping his head back, Owen turns it to find his phone and switches on the screen, squinting blearily at the time. 05:32. _For fuck’s sake…_

It could be important. Something could have gone wrong with the team. He isn’t just willing to talk to Dylan in private at any opportunity; he might have become overly dependent on Dylan, but he’s not _that_ bad. (Is he?)

“Yeah.”

Dylan flicks on the light as soon as he enters, and Owen has to cover his eyes, groaning. He drops the arm over them as quickly as he can, however, and tries to tell himself that it’s because he doesn’t want to show any weakness to Dylan, or because he wants this over with, and not because he wants to see Dylan or some shit like that.

The expression on Dylan’s face – quiet worry, apprehension – does not exactly seem threatening… but nor does it promise anything good. He’ll take it, though: anything over the cold pretence of one another’s non-existence over the last week. As long as he’s not the one showing weakness – if Dylan’s going to, then that’s his mistake, not Owen’s.

More than worried, though, Dylan looks tired: exhausted, even. It hangs over him, a sort of long-term weariness that leaves his features haggard, almost gaunt under the hotel lights. Owen wonders if he looks the same, if his weakness is obvious on his face; Dylan looks almost like he’s going through some sort of minor drug withdrawal, and strangely, the comparison feels… apt.

Is he _addicted_ to Dylan? The thought is almost – _almost_ – enough to make him laugh.

Briefly, Dylan’s eyes flick over him, then the older man looks away, swallowing, and Owen realises with a jolt that he is bare from the waist up. Trying not to flush, he reaches down to pick up his shirt and shrug it up his arms without bothering to fasten it.

“Er… I was looking through twitter,” Dylan begins; Owen notices for the first time that the older man is twisting his phone in his hands. “Saw something from Gareth Thomas. I – Listen, I’ve been thinking about what you said when we were arguing…”

“Which bit?” Owen has to snort, relieved when his voice doesn’t waver, when his face doesn’t break to reveal how much he misses the man still hovering in his doorway.

They both said a lot. Owen, for one, has tried his best not to think about it. He’s not sure he even remembers what he said, to be honest. He thinks it got lost somewhere in his anxiety over their relationship – over what has happened to it, over what has happened to _him_. (A lot of things got lost in that. Perhaps the only good thing is that he’s barely even registered the looks from his teammates in the last day or two, though he knows they’re still happening.)

“About not wanting to come out,” Dylan’s face twists with irritation for a moment as he speaks, probably at Owen’s decision to be just a little bit difficult, then smooths back out. “I, well, probably should have listened a bit more – I didn’t, _yes_ , we both know that… I just wanted to say sorry for that, and for everything else I said. I was… I was looking to hurt, alright?”

Owen stiffens, caught on the verge of snapping back; he _knows_ Dylan was looking to hurt, and as much as he doesn’t want to admit it, Dylan very much achieved that goal. Dylan has just apologised, though, and Owen knows he said some things he shouldn’t have either. He can’t let Dylan be the bigger man in this.

He can’t show how much this has bothered him.

“I’m sorry too,” he mutters. “…I should’ve said something sooner.”

Dylan’s shrug is neither an agreement nor a disagreement. ‘Let things slide’ seems to be the message, and Owen hates that he clings to it, hates what a relief it is even as he wonders if this isn’t a little simple as a solution to their problems. After all, they both still said it all, and Owen still doesn’t think he’s ready to come out… and it’s only a matter of time before this all happens again.

Maybe… Maybe, if Dylan shows that he’s up for it – because Owen’s not going to make the first move, not going to be the one to admit his continued attachment first – their relationship might be salvaged, but it won’t be the same. It _can’t_ be the same; Owen won’t let it. He can’t afford to get overly reliant on someone else. Not after how much trouble that’s already caused him.

“I – Er... I also wanted to show you what Gareth Thomas put on twitter,” Dylan takes half a step towards the bed, then pauses. “You mind if I…?”

“Go ahead,” Owen shifts automatically to the side to make room for Dylan next to him, and Dylan pauses, blinking; Owen’s cheeks flush as he realises that Dylan probably intended to sit on the edge of the mattress instead.

Still, he doesn’t change his mind, letting Dylan shift up against the headboard and leaning in – trying to ignore the brushing of their shoulders – to see the video that Dylan produces.

To be quite honest, he doesn’t think he’s ever seen Gareth Thomas looking so worse for wear, aside from at the end of a tough game. He doesn’t really consider it for long, though, before Thomas’ words sink in. _Shit_.

This is… This is so much of what he’s always feared when it comes to telling people that he’s gay. The violence, the hatred – he can handle it when it’s about him as a player. When it’s about his sexuality, about something he can’t help, has struggled with in the past… He’s not equipped to handle it. Not at all.

The mistrust of his teammates has bothered him so much that he almost forgot about this risk, about the very real threat that will come as the news inevitably spreads – because they can’t stop it. (It’s probably halfway around the Premiership already.) Now, the reality of what someone might do to him – or to Dylan, or to both of them – hits him like a punch to the gut, knocking the breath from his lungs and constricting his ribcage as Dylan turns off his phone and lowers it, twisting to look at him expectantly.

Suddenly, Owen thinks he understands why Dylan’s here, why Dylan has apologised; Dylan doesn’t want to come out either, anymore – he hopes. There’s no fucking way Owen’s coming out after watching this, at any rate (or at least, not properly; it’s too late to stop it completely, because he’s a fucking idiot who couldn’t control himself).

“I mean… We’re out to the team,” Dylan offers, after a good minute of silent contemplation. “They’re fine with it –”

“No, they’re not,” Owen corrects him bitterly, trying not to dwell too much on what he’s just seen, on what it means for them – because somehow, almost by accident, they seem to be back to being _them_ , not just one and the other. “They’re just not willing to admit that out loud.”

Blinking, Dylan frowns at him.

“What do you mean?”

Lifting a hand, Owen scrubs it over his eyes. He’s so exhausted – was tired when Dylan woke him, and is shattered by now – and he doesn’t want to talk about this, has been too worn down by every single glance shot his way since The Kiss.

“They haven’t been giving you looks?” he hedges.

Dylan’s frown deepens, and for a moment, Owen allows himself to believe that he might have been imagining it.

“Yeah, they have,” Dylan sighs, the sound seeming an audible metaphor for the slump in Owen’s hope. “Like they don’t quite… I don’t know, trust me or something. _Fuck_ …”

Leaning forward, Owen scrubs his hands over his eyes and nods miserably. It was wishful thinking on his part, he recognises, to take the reaction Sarries had – knowing him far better than many of the England squad, and already having known about him being gay for years – or even the reaction Saints had, and expect his England teammates to accept the news of him and Dylan in the same way.

“And we’re supposed to be their Co-Captains as well,” he voices aloud, and it’s far too easy to rest his head on Dylan’s shoulder, closing his eyes; their internal problems, it seems, have been ditched in favour of a wider, external issue – though how long it can stay that way, he doesn’t know. “I shouldn’t have kissed you in front of them.”

“Fuck,” Dylan repeats, and then an arm curls loosely around Owen’s back, lips pressing gently into his hair. “We… We can’t stop this now, you know that?”

Owen nods, making no move to shrug off the familiarly comforting weight of Dylan’s arm; he needs it, just this once. He’ll allow himself a moment of weakness tonight, then he’ll get back to patching over the holes that Dylan has left in his defence tomorrow.

“If we back down, people will think we’re ashamed when it does inevitably go fully public,” Dylan continues. “I’m not even talking about sending a positive message, or anything like that, before you start. If we let them think there’s a weakness, we’re painting a huge target on our backs.”

He’s right. Owen hates it, hates where this line of thought is going, but he can’t find a fault in it so far. He can’t come out – he isn’t ready – but he blocked off his own escape route when he kissed Dylan in front of the team, then didn’t do anything about it for several weeks. Maybe they could’ve run damage control if they’d been quick: stopped the lads telling their teammates back at their clubs. It’s too late for that now, though.

“Maybe… Nothing big,” Dylan’s lips are still pressed to his hair, brushing lightly against the side of his head. “Not like you kissing me. Just act normal. Properly normal.”

“I…” Owen hesitates; he doesn’t want to do this, the very thought of letting people know chilling him to the bone, but it’s too late to be having those regrets.

“I know you’re scared,” Dylan tells him softly. “…I am, too.”

Owen doesn’t know what to say to that, so he doesn’t bother to address it at all.

“So, same plan as before,” he huffs instead, trying not to sound a little bitter. “Great.”

Shaking his head, Dylan draws back slightly to catch Owen’s eyes.

“ _Not_ the same plan,” the older man insists. “We were still too awkward. We didn’t let it be normal. We jumped from still keeping it hidden to making it too pronounced. Just imagine we’re at home. That’s all.”

Closing his eyes, Owen thinks it over. Coming out has suddenly become a whole lot more dangerous, but there’s no way to back out of it. If they try anyway, they get caught on the backfoot, and have to wheedle their way out of a scandal. If they _actually_ relax, really let it happen like they said they would… Maybe they stand the smallest chance of making it through this.

“Fine,” he sighs, because he really sees no other way out, and Dylan offers him a gentle, understanding smile.

“You mind… You mind if I stay the rest of the night? Don’t really fancy the walk back…”

It’s less than twenty metres – a weak excuse, and Owen sees right through it.

Mute, he simply nods.

 

If it was wishful thinking to assume that the England team would react the same way as Saracens, Owen thinks, then hoping that they wouldn’t ask about the assault on Gareth Thomas was pure insanity. His teammates may have done an award-worthy job of _not_ mentioning his sexuality, the kiss or even anything about him and Dylan, even in the context of their Co-Captaincy, but apparently a good bit of controversy is more than enough to break their pretence that none of it exists.

Luckily, no one actually seems too bothered about getting his opinion, so he simply sits in silence, teeth clenched and muscles tight, as the debate bounces back and forth around him:

“– should get punished properly, if you ask me –”

“Restorative justice will do a lot more –”

“Surely it’s just up to what _he_ wants? It’s not anyone else’s business –”

“Yeah, but this sort of thing could affect –”

“Well, that’s why we asked Faz, but you didn’t _like_ that –”

“I just thought _maybe_ Faz didn’t want to talk about it –”

_Well, Ben’s right there._

Sighing, Owen turns his attention to his phone, sending off a quick message to Dylan to warn him away. He’d rather they don’t both get caught up in this if he can help it, and he’s not sure his partner would particularly appreciate being automatically labelled ‘gay’.

The text he gets back brings both relief and apprehension as he reads it through several times. On the one hand, it gets him out of this. On the other…

Talking to Eddie about the effect of their unplanned coming out on the team was Dylan’s idea, and Owen knows it’s sensible, but he’s dreading it all the same. To read that Eddie’s agreed to have that meeting _now_ is…

He should probably go. Being late to it wouldn’t be a good start, he knows. It’s just… Shit, he really doesn’t want to talk about it – any of it – and at the end of the day, it was his fault. He can accept that, and acknowledge that the blame is on him and him alone, but that doesn’t mean he wants to have a fucking _meeting_ about it.

Standing, he walks from the room; no one seems to notice, and for a moment, he wonders why he didn’t just leave when it first started. If all he had to do was look at his phone and walk out, he didn’t have to stick around for any of it.

“Faz, where are you going?”

_…or maybe not._

“Meeting with Eddie,” he throws over his shoulder.

“Right. Have fun…”

Eddie and Dylan are already chatting amicably when he arrives – too light-hearted, he thinks, to have started discussing the issue at hand – and Dylan smiles at him when he sits, reaching out to squeeze his hand. Blinking, Owen looks down at their intertwined fingers. The open affection, even in such a small gesture, is… surprising – and right before they start talking about the effect of their coming out…

He’s not complaining, though. He could use the silent support that Dylan’s firm grip offers – and probably Dylan was looking for comfort, too.

“What can I do for you boys, then?” Eddie eyes them expectantly, expression open, and Owen glances at Dylan, hoping that, for this meeting, his partner will do the talking.

Dylan doesn’t disappoint.

“We’re a bit concerned about the team’s reaction to us, uh… coming out a few weeks back.”

Eddie raises an amused eyebrow at them, and Owen tries not to sink a little in his seat, cheeks flushing before he can stop them.

“Is that what we’re calling it?” the coach asks, before his expression falls into seriousness. “Has anyone said or done anything offensive.”

“…No?” Dylan glances over at Owen as if for confirmation.

“No,” Owen confirms. “We’re more… I don’t think they’re comfortable with it – with us.”

For a moment, Eddie studies them both in silence. Owen tries not to look away, tries to appear calm and unconcerned – but he really doubts it works, and Eddie certainly doesn’t appear convinced.

“What’s caused these concerns?”

The question is directed towards Owen, and he swallows under Eddie’s intense gaze as he struggles to find the words to explain his worries.

“There are… looks,” _Shit, that sounds stupid, but it’s too late now_ , “In the showers, or when we’re in any sort of situation that could…”

“Cause suspicions,” Dylan fills in for him, grip tightening on his fingers. “

“I assume by ‘suspicions’, you mean of your intentions?” Eddie sits back, still examining them. “You’re concerned that the team doesn’t trust you because of your sexualities.”

Trying to fight down the lump solidifying in his throat, Owen jerks his head in a stiff nod. His neck muscles feel tight, his spine rigid, and _shit_ , he’s going to need to see the team’s physio to loosen everything properly at this rate.

“I see,” Eddie sighs finally. “Is there anyone you’d feel able to ask about the team’s opinion – someone who might have been able to hear any conversation that would have been kept away from you?”

Owen shares a glance with Dylan, uncertain. He’d much rather have kept this between the three of them – doesn’t know what he was expecting, but it certainly wasn’t this

“One of the Sarries lads or Courtney?” he suggests. “Or Fordy.”

Dylan nods in silent agreement.

“I’ll have a talk with George,” Eddie tells them firmly, tone leaving no room for argument. “Allow me to assure both of you: if the boys on this team have a problem with your attraction to men, we’ll be correcting them, not changing captains. I’m more than happy with the job the two of you are doing, and there’ll be no room for prejudice on this team.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I love Eddie. It's firmly in my head that he's been shipping them this entire time. And it seems like he'd give really good hugs? Like, he just gives off that vibe?


	18. Chapter 18

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OK, yes, I know it's been two weeks. I've just kinda got to the stage of having to write entirely new material immediately before I post it, and I'm still not entirely sure where this is going - I have a slightly crazy idea in my head, but it's the sort of thing that only strikes me when I'm listening to certain songs, and the rest of the time, I'm more 'meh' about it. We'll see.
> 
> Owen's a daddy! Tommy looks... eh, as adorable as a baby can, I guess? I'm not particularly good at judging whether a baby's cute or not, so... I was certainly amused by Mark's story post-game on Saturday.
> 
> Anyway, I feel I should clarify that this takes place in the week before the AUS game. And as always, we're having a bit of fun! I think this might also be my longest chapter so far in terms of words - but it's a *lot* of dialogue, which is not my favourite thing to write straight up, so... Sorry about how sparse it probably looks. (And a high school friend has just messaged me out of the blue, so I'll wrap this up here. Hope you've all had a good time over the last few weeks!)

Owen steps back from the tee, happy that the ball is lined up correctly – _exactly_ how he wants it – and glances up at the posts, hitching up his shorts a little then letting his hands fall to swing at his sides. _Ball, posts._ _Ball –_

“So, Dylan Hartley?” Jonny starts behind him, already strolling around to stand in his way, and he grits his teeth, trying not to let on how much his mentor’s tactics are frustrating him – though this is a little different to normal, because Jonny’s never brought up something _personal_.

“What about him?” he grunts out, resettling his stance without taking his eyes off the ball.

Jonny steps neatly into his line of sight.

“I heard the two of you are…?”

“You’re a little behind on that news,” Owen concedes grudgingly. “Rest of the team’s known for two weeks, now.”

Nodding in consideration, Jonny eyes him carefully. Owen tries to pretend that he doesn’t feel a little judged, a little vulnerable under the stare – especially when he doesn’t know what’s going on with Eddie talking to George, when he’s still somewhat uncertain about the relationship itself, when they’re going to be facing Folau in a matter of days. He’s not sure he manages it.

“How have they taken it?”

“The team?” Owen blinks, taken a little off-guard. “I mean…”

Struggling to find a vaguely positive answer that could still be counted as truth, he trails off and shrugs.

“Not good, huh?” Jonny steps closer. “Do you know _why_ they don’t like it?”

Owen searches for an answer that isn’t, _they don’t trust gay people_. Nothing that he’s actually willing to say aloud to Jonny seems to be coming to his mind at the moment. It’s really kind of irritating.

“Like, are they bothered about the captaincy – are they questioning the whole Co-Captains thing? Do they not like having an in-team relationship? Is it that you share a room?”

For a moment, Owen isn’t sure what to say. He’s never thought about that side of it, really – not from the team’s perspective. From the media, sure, but the team… He’s pretty sure it’s not the full story, pretty sure that doesn’t explain the suspicious looks they get, but maybe it’s a contributing factor. He should talk to Dylan about it.

“I just don’t think they’re comfortable,” he shrugs. “You know… With a gay teammate.”

“Teammates, surely?” Jonny raises an eyebrow at him, and Owen shakes his head, but doesn’t bother to elaborate, although Jonny is a fairly trustworthy man to confide in; Jonny doesn’t really deal in gossip like the lads currently on the team, and maybe that’s a mark of a different time, or maybe it’s just that Jonny understands the need for privacy. “Is one of you bi or something?”

“I’m gay,” Owen shrugs, searching for an explanation that won’t potentially breach Dylan’s own privacy. “Dylan is… more complicated. It’s his sexuality to tell.”

“Of course,” Jonny nods, then gestures to the ball that Owen had honestly forgotten about. “Do you want to kick that, then? _Without_ setting it up again?”

Shooting him an irritated stare, Owen tries to shove away the discomfort of messing with his routine like that, changing it up so slightly yet so drastically. He _knows_ he’s set the ball up properly, has already been through all of that before Jonny interrupted him in the first place. It’s just… He doesn’t like it, is all.

With a slightly frustrated sigh, he steps back and resettles himself into position, redrawing his trajectory – this time without disruption – and finally stepping forward to slot the ball comfortably between the posts. Jonny nods, clapping him on the shoulder, and hands him another ball, then moves further towards the edge of the pitch.

“Let’s do a few from… here.”

Ten minutes later, Fordy joins them, and Owen grins at the sight of his friend, crossing the grass to greet George and toss him a ball. George accepts it with a wink and turns to the posts; Owen watches, his own smile growing, as the younger man’s impromptu drop goal sails through.

“Nice!” he laughs, slapping George on the back. “You here to save me from Jonny?”

“Are you kidding?” Jonny snorts from behind him. “George is my back-up.”

Owen turns a wide-eyed, pleading stare on George, who jostles him with a wry shake of his head.

“Does poor ickle Faz need rescuing from the mean Jonny?” he mocks.

“Yes,” Owen grumbles, shoving him back, and George repeats his own action a little harder, sending Owen stumbling a step before Jonny intervenes.

“Boys…” he chides, and for a moment, silence reigns, then Owen meets George’s eyes and dissolves into laughter at the same time as his childhood friend.

Jonny watches them, clearly amused, then turns his head to greet whoever must have come out with George – Owen didn’t really look to see who it was.

“Good morning, Dylan.”

_Wait, Dylan?_ Owen looks up, blinking, as his amusement fades to a warm, comfortable fizz in his chest; he hadn’t even noticed his partner’s presence, but now that he looks, he’s aware that Dylan appears less than amused – at as little as being ignored? Really?

“Alright, Dyl?”

George glances over his shoulder at Dylan as Owen’s partner folds his arms and raises an eyebrow.

“Oh, yeah,” the younger Fly-half turns back to Owen. “I brought you a present.”

Barely containing his mirth, Owen manages a choked, ‘thanks,’ laden with the laughter he’s trying his hardest to suppress, and George beams at his clear enjoyment of the situation. Dylan coughs pointedly, meeting Owen’s eyes, then jerks his head to the side. Reluctantly, Owen excuses himself, following Dylan away from his fellow kickers.

“You’re going to be sole Captain this week,” Dylan tells him flatly, and Owen feels an inkling of understanding as to why Dylan’s in a bad mood, even if he’s not entirely sure what the cause of this news is.

“Are you injured?” he asks anxiously, because that seems the most likely explanation.

“No,” Dylan’s jaw tightens, the muscle twitching, and Owen watches him in concern. “…I’m on the bench.”

“Oh,” Owen manages, because he doesn’t really know what else to say to that, whether to offer condolences, or… “Um, do you want to talk more about this later? I need to get my practice in now, but if you want to…”

_When I’ve worked out what to say to this_ , Owen fills in silently.

For a long, uncomfortable moment, Dylan stares at him. Owen shifts awkwardly, wondering if maybe he should have tried harder to comfort Dylan now, but he really doesn’t know how to address this, can’t think of anything to console Dylan that would actually be true. Finally, however, Dylan’s eyes flick over his shoulder, jaw muscles clenching further, and Owen twists to follow the gaze, wondering what could be aggravating his partner, but it’s just Fordy and Jonny, bantering back and forth about who-knows-what.

“Fine,” Dylan bites out, and Owen looks back to find the older man frowning at him. “You enjoy your kicking session with Ford.”

“I… will…?” Owen hedges, not entirely sure what to make of the way Dylan’s tone twisted the words into something of an insult; Dylan’s only response is a huff and an eye-roll.

_Weird._

 

Most of the team is already in the room, Owen notes vaguely when he drops into a seat next to Fordy at breakfast on Thursday, offering a terse greeting to Jamie, who sits next to Elliot and Ben on the same table. At some point, he knows, he needs to work things out with his clubmates; most of them seem over it, but Jamie and Maro are, he’s aware, somewhat unimpressed with him. It’s only fair of them, he has to admit; he’s been a dick, lately.

Dylan isn’t here yet – is, Owen thinks, taking a moment to himself on the day that Eddie’s decision to bench him will be announced – and Owen can’t exactly fault his partner for that. It’s a horrible blow, he knows, and certainly not one he thinks he has much right to console Dylan over, given that the same switch in Hooker has resulted in a slight elevation to sole Captain on his part; he hasn’t even spoken to Dylan yet, was aware of the older man’s dropping mood yesterday evening and wasn’t sure how to approach Dylan this morning, so he left it.

“You alright, Faz?” George offers him a crooked smile, and he returns it easily, shaking off the thoughts of Dylan for the time being.

“Alright?”

“Listen,” George glances at the rest of the table, then leans in slightly closer. “Eddie, er… He talked to me yesterday evening.”

Slowly, Owen nods. He’s been wondering when Eddie would do it, if the coach would wait until after the Australia game – but then, there wouldn’t really have been much time unless he left it for a few weeks. At any rate, apparently, he hasn’t.

“He was going to talk to you and Dylan about it at some point today. Just thought I’d give you a heads-up.”

George, Owen recognises, is aware enough not to attempt to discuss it in front of all of their teammates. As much of a relief as that is, it leaves Owen hanging, wanting to know more – and Owen _really_ doesn’t like it.

Before he can say any more, even suggest that George follows him from the room just to tell him what was discussed yesterday, a hand settles on his left shoulder. He jumps, then looks up, still a little startled, to find Dylan staring down at him, lips quirked in a half-smile – a little surprising, given the events set to happen today.

“Hey,” his partner greets, and then Owen is completely thrown as Dylan ducks to kiss him, their lips meeting in front of the team for only the second time – far more chaste, this one, and Dylan pulls away without giving Owen a chance to recover from his shock to grin. “Happy one-year.”

Blinking, Owen raises his eyebrows.

“I thought we were leaving it until after the weekend,” he points out.

“We’re leaving the celebrations,” Dylan corrects, already lowering himself into the chair on Owen’s right, arm left to drape around Owen’s shoulders. “It’s still our anniversary.”

Owen eyes the older man for a second, trying to work out if there’s anything behind this, anything he’s missing, but he’s pretty sure there’s nothing, and Dylan’s words make sense.

“Alright,” he shrugs, leaning in for another short kiss; if the first one hasn’t been met with outright staring, he figures another can’t go amiss. “Happy one-year.”

Dylan smiles at him, soft and warm, and the fingers that trace patterns on his shoulder are light, gentle. Owen almost can’t believe they’ve made it this far – a few days ago, he probably would have said they had no chance. He’s glad they have, though, even if he knows he won’t get away with being as careless with his affection this coming year as he has the last.

“ _One year_?” Ben repeats, and Owen is shaken from his quiet contentment by his teammate’s wide-eyed shock.

“Yeah?” the single word is stiff, defensive, and the stilling of Dylan’s fingers on Owen’s shoulders echo Dylan’s tone.

Ben, luckily, doesn’t seem to notice, merely glancing rapidly between them before shaking his head.

“I thought it was a new thing,” he explains, interest lighting in his gaze. “You’ve been together a _year_?”

“A year today,” Dylan confirms, speech stilted as Owen resettles himself slightly and joins their right hands under the table.

This time, Ben seems to hear the unwelcoming note in Dylan’s voice, subsiding slightly to merely look at them. Owen stares back for a second, then decides that ignoring the look would work better and turns instead to his breakfast, lifting his fork with his free hand to eat whatever doesn’t require detaching their fingers.

“Congratulations,” Fordy nudges him, and Owen manages a small grin, swallowing his food swiftly to reply.

“Thanks, mate.”

Beside him, Dylan sighs deeply, the movement shifting their hands a little, then moves to break the grip they have on one another. Owen frowns at him in silent complaint, only to get a pointed stare from Dylan that turns to the older man’s breakfast after a second, then down to their joined fingers. _Oh._

Smirking a little, Owen shrugs and tightens his hold, turning back to his own food. Dylan can work that one out by himself – Owen’s managing it, isn’t he? So what if Dylan’s right-handed? That’s his fault.

“Owen…” Dylan sighs, and Owen can’t stop the smile spreading across his lips as he manages a hum of acknowledgement. “Can you…?”

“What’s wrong, Dyl?”

Owen’s enjoying this – possibly more than he should, but the exasperated look that Dylan fixes him with is familiar and loving despite the superficial emotion attached, and if he can get away with riling up his partner a little bit… Never mind the entertainment factor: it’s a great distraction from Ben’s continuing stare.

“I need to eat,” Dylan tells him flatly.

“I know,” Owen tries not to laugh at Dylan’s frustrated huff, but it’s a struggle. “Is that news to you?”

“I need my hand to eat.”

“Still attached to you, isn’t it?”

“It’s also rather unfortunately attached to you,” Dylan points out, dry and clearly more amused than he’d like to let on.

“Is it?” Owen can no longer keep the faint note of laughter from his words. “That, erm… That really is unfortunate.”

“ _Owen_ …”

Owen glances at Dylan, fully intending to drag this out a little longer, but it’s a muffled yelp of surprise that escapes his lips instead as Dylan’s mouth finds his. His boyfriend takes full advantage of his shock, swiftly detaching their hands and pulling back to tuck into his own meal without another word, as Owen tries to recover his composure, very much aware of the entire table watching them. This is very definitely the most affection they’ve displayed in front of the team since The Kiss – possibly even including it. It’s… a strange thought.

“Huh,” Elliot cocks his head. “You’re actually… alright together.”

Owen isn’t sure if he’s meant to take offense at the note of surprise in his teammate’s voice or not.

“One year didn’t come from nowhere,” Dylan shrugs. “Wouldn’t have lasted if we didn’t have _some_ redeeming qualities.”

“Speak for yourself,” Owen huffs, grinning and sticking out his tongue when Dylan frowns at him. “I’m kidding. I love you.”

“You’d better,” Dylan rolls his eyes. “The shit I put up with from you, I swear…”

That… hits a little close to home. Owen’s pretty sure Dylan said something similar during their argument. He doesn’t want to bring that up, though – and even if he did, he wouldn’t do it in front of anyone else – so he simply lifts a shoulder, pastes his most charming smile across his face, and lets Dylan return to eating, hesitating a moment more before doing the same.

It’s fine, really. He just needs to remember to _be careful_. It worries him, how quickly and easily he relaxed into this: the soft teasing, the gentle touches, the disregard of his teammates in favour of Dylan, who seemed in the past few minutes to be the only man who really mattered. He can’t let it keep happening.

 

“What were you talking about with Ford, then?” Dylan asks while Eddie’s talking to the media about the team.

“Huh?” Owen glances up, not entirely sure what to make of the pronounced crease in Dylan’s brow. “When?”

He talks to Fordy a lot. They’ve been friends for a long time, pretty close at some stages of their lives – best friends at one point, Owen likes to think, even if time and distance has pulled them ever-so-slightly apart – and they’ve played in a 10-12 partnership for a long time, even if Owen has somewhat usurped George’s shirt in recent games (and as guilty as he feels, he’s pleased to be back in his favourite position, running it all the way he wants it to go). Even now, their situation as the team’s two Fly-halves and one of the team’s major sources of ideas for attack requires a constant communication.

“At breakfast,” Dylan raises a pointed eyebrow at him – or it would be pointed, if Owen had any idea what it meant.

“What, about his chat with Eddie?” he realises. “Yeah, Eddie’s talked to him about, you know… What people think about us. We’re going to be having another meeting at some point today.”

Strangely, Dylan seems to relax. Owen expected to see some tension at the reminder, at the suspense, but maybe the relief at finally hearing more about what’s going on in all of this is more prominent for Dylan than anything else.

“I see,” his partner nods. “What do you think of Ford?”

Shrugging, Owen considers his interactions with the younger man lately. It’s phrased a little weirdly, but he’s assuming Dylan’s talking about George’s reaction to losing his starting spot.

“I don’t know,” he muses, tilting his head to the side. “I think he’s doing alright, to be fair to him. Can’t be easy for him, losing his shirt, but he’s a strong lad. He’ll pull through.”

“Right,” Dylan coughs, and Owen feels his eyes widen as he realises what he’s said. “Of course.”

“Sorry, Dyl, I wasn’t thinking about…” he trails off, trying not to make it worse, and isn’t sure whether to let it go when Dylan shakes his head as if to dismiss the apology.

“It’s fine, I understand.”

It isn’t fine, Owen thinks as he studies Dylan’s expression – the way his partner glances away, the tightening of Dylan’s jaw – but he doesn’t really want to push such a touchy subject at the moment. Instead, as a silence that feels unusually awkward settles between them, Owen searches for a different topic – and comes up with another sensitive one, but luckily something which he feels he can approach on a level playing field with Dylan.

“Folau,” he starts carefully; the look Dylan shoots him is sharp. “Erm…”

“We’ll just have to be careful,” Dylan tells him curtly, and _shit_ , Owen really needs to think more about his words, because clearly, Dylan’s really cut up about the whole bench situation.

“Yeah, but –”

“Just try not to kiss anyone, and we’ll be fine.”

Dylan stalks off without another word, and Owen watches him go, utterly bemused. Sure, being demoted to the bench is tough, but surely Owen’s words haven’t made _that_ much of a difference to Dylan’s mood. He’s not sure where the kissing comment came from – feels uncomfortably certain that it’s a reference to his mistake after the game against South Africa, and the beginnings of discomforted stir inside him. Maybe Dylan isn’t as over their argument as he originally claimed? (Not that Owen would be one to talk, but at least he never outright _pretended_ to be… just let Dylan assume.)

“Ouch,” Jonny remarks behind him, and Owen jumps, twisting to find the winger standing with Ben, Elliot and Manu. “Someone upset the bae?”

Rolling his eyes, Owen huffs and slumps back to fold his arms.

Shouldn’t have brought up the fucking bench,” he complains – a self-criticism, because it probably was his fault for mentioning it, not Dylan’s for reacting, even if the response was… extreme. “Dyl’s been touchy about it since Eddie told him.”

Elliot nods sympathetically.

“You know, I feel bad for you both,” the Wasps man muses after a moment, Owen trying not to stiffen too noticeably.

“And why’s that?”

Perhaps Owen doesn’t manage to keep the defensive note out of his voice as well as he’d have liked, because Elliot’s eyes widen, then he shakes his head.

“No, shit, not like that! Just… When you argue, you don’t have periods as an excuse to fall back on.”

For a moment, Owen can only stare at his teammate, then a snort of amused confusion escapes.

“What the fuck is that supposed to mean?”

“You know…” Elliot appears to search for words for a moment. “When you date a girl and she…”

“No, I don’t know,” Owen supplies pointedly, and Elliot blinks.

“…Oh. Right.”

“You’ve never even tried it?”

Owen’s beginning to get a little fed up with being baffled as he turns a blank stare on Ben. The Scrum-half drops down into a seat next to him, rolling his eyes almost fondly and reaching out to shove him.

“You never dated a girl?” he clarifies. “How’d you know you’re gay if not?”

It’s Owen’s turn to roll his eyes.

“You never dated a lad?” he fires back.

“Point taken,” Ben shrugs, grinning. “I’d turn for you, though, Faz.”

“ _What_?” Jonny gapes.

Owen has no response to that but laughter, and Ben joins in, wiping at his eyes with shaking hands as Jonny’s eyes widen with shock. Maybe the comment itself wasn’t _that_ funny, but shit, Jonny’s reaction is… _Oh, shit…_

Slowly, Owen recomposes himself, dragging his sleeve roughly over his own eyes when his breathing is finally steady, if slightly hoarse. When their giggles have entirely subsided, Ben waves a hand at their three teammates, Elliot and Manu grinning while Jonny’s expression just starts to slacken with comprehension.

“Come on, lads – stop standing there like lemons and find yourselves a seat!”

“So,” Elliot starts as soon as he’s dropped into the seat on Owen’s left, while Jonny and Manu drag chairs around to face them, and Owen’s startled by the change of mood; Elliot’s voice holds only hard sincerity, the glint in his eyes steely and serious. “Did I hear you mention Israel Folau?”

Cautiously, Owen nods. He can’t tell if he’s going to like where this is going or not, but he’ll give them the benefit of the doubt for now, he thinks.

“He won’t say anything,” Manu tells him, tone laden with certainty. “The lads would rip right into him.”

Blinking, Owen shrugs.

“I… I’m not sure if he even knows – it’s more…”

“Mate, the whole Prem’s known for weeks,” Ben snorts, and Owen feels himself freeze, hoping that his face doesn’t whiten too visibly. “Reckon it’ll have got around to them by now.”

The whole Premiership…? Shit.

Owen tries to maintain his composure, tries to pretend that this isn’t news to him, that he isn’t panicking internally. That’s twelve clubs’ worth of men, and their families, and the coaching staff, and the volunteers, and their International teammates, and probably their opponents, and… _Oh,_ _fuck_.

The entire world might as well know about him and Dylan – and they probably know more about the relationship than he does with the way it’s going.

“Right,” he coughs and tries to shake himself. “…Yeah. Of course.”

“The lads will go at him if he does, at any rate,” Elliot prompts him, which is… _unlikely_ , Owen thinks.

Maybe his doubt is slightly too obvious, if the way Ben’s eyebrows lift is anything to go by. Perhaps his dubious snort was a little _too_ audible.

“You don’t think so?” the older man asks, and Owen can only shrug; he’s sort of backed himself into a corner, here. “Mate, we’ve got your back.”

“Sure,” Owen sighs tiredly. “You, maybe. You think everyone in the team’s happy about it?”

“You think anyone in the team’s got a problem?” Ben retorts.

“Shit, is this why Jinx and them went off on me?” Manu’s eyebrows rise in a near-perfect imitation of Ben’s.

“Yeah,” Owen nods, blowing out a breath and lifting a hand to scrub at his eyes. “It’s pretty obvious not everyone’s… comfortable. With me, with Dylan, with both of us…”

He shrugs.

“Only no one’s actually willing to say it,” he concludes. “They just spend all their time staring at us like they’re waiting to catch us perving on them.”

Ben’s eyebrows inch ever higher.

“For real?” the Scrum-half asks. “You talked to Eddie about this?”

“Yeah,” Owen looks away. “He’s meant to be getting back to us about it today.”

“…Huh,” Ben sits slowly back, studying him carefully, and Owen forces himself not to avert his gaze, not to back down. “How long’s that been going on for, then?”

“Since everyone found out…?” Owen hedges – isn’t it obvious?

“And you just… haven’t said anything? For weeks?”

“What am I meant to say?” Owen asks defensively. “Like, ‘Hey, lads, I know you’ve only just found out I’m gay, but I promise I haven’t been checking you all out in the years that we’ve been showering together…’ Yeah. That’d go down well. Especially now I’m dating a guy who’s basically…”

He trails off, cutting off what he was about to say as he realises that he probably shouldn’t start talking about Dylan’s sexuality with these boys when Dylan isn’t around.

“Basically what?” Jonny presses eagerly, apparently over Ben’s earlier joke. “What are we saying about Skips?”

“Jonny,” Ben fixes his clubmate with a flat look. “Faz is Captain this week.”

“Oh,” Jonny sits back. “Yeah. What are we saying about Dylan, then?”

“Nothing…” Owen sighs, picking at the armrest of his chair as he looks away. “Never mind. Just… Never mind.”

_Straight_ , is what he was going to say, and he feels guilty for thinking it, because it feels like he’s disrespecting Dylan’s sexuality, but last he checked, Dylan was still using ‘straight with the exception of…’, so he’s probably safe. It just… bothers him a bit, sometimes – he’s tried to ignore it, and did a pretty good job over the last year, but he’s found himself less tolerant of it since their fight – to know that Dylan’s attraction covers ‘solely women’ and… him. It’s not that he feels emasculated, so much; he just… feels emasculated. It’s in the little things: the way Dylan behaves, the way he likes to take the leading role in everything they do – all adding up to tell Owen that Dylan is very much used to women, and hasn’t entirely realised that Owen isn’t going to work the same way.

And sure, he was fine with that when everything else was going great; it was just how Dylan was, just part of the relationship, and maybe Dylan’s constant need to be the one taking _him_ out places bothered him, but it was what it was, and he was happy to put up with it. Now… It sticks a little closer to the forefront of his mind – the knowledge that Dylan is still viewing this as just another relationship, hasn’t taken the time to consider that maybe having a male partner requires something of a different approach.

Obviously, it’s not that Dylan forgets he’s dating a man – Dylan’s _very_ aware that he’s dating a man, and Owen makes quite sure of that, thanks very much – just that he doesn’t necessarily consider that it could have any distinctions beside the glaring differences.

“Aw, come on…” Elliot presses, but Owen shakes his head, staying firmly silent.

Bad enough he’s been thinking it; he’s not going to say it to someone else as well. It’s hardly even a legitimate concern – just a problem he’s made up in his own head to keep himself from getting too comfortable, from letting himself become too attached. Certainly, Dylan doesn’t need another excuse to be annoyed with him at the moment.

“Owen?”

_Speak of the devil…_

Owen twists in his seat, relieved to see that his partner looks a little calmer than he did ten minutes ago – though by no means happy. Maybe Owen should talk to him – check that there’s nothing going on besides the bench situation, but… He doesn’t really want Dylan going off on one at him right now. Not on their anniversary, at any rate.

“Yeah?” he prompts, just a little more carefully than normal.

Dylan meets his eyes and gestures to the door.

“Eddie wants to talk to us.”


	19. Chapter 19

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, then... I'm actually pretty surprised I managed to get this out. I'd like to just say that you probably shouldn't be expecting anything next weekend, because I'm going away on a training camp for the coming week, and regardless of how much time I'd have (not much), we're not actually allowed to take laptops. So... yeah. I still need to make sure my friends know they won't be able to contact me, actually. 
> 
> Anyway, the Sarries result was nice, and Canes had a tight win, but you poor, poor Tigers fans... I mean, I like Tigers, and it'd be nice to see them doing well, but the pain their fans must be feeling right now. At least it was Exeter, right? 
> 
> Also, hi to little Tommy - and I feel really, horribly guilty that neither Owen's nor Dylan's kids are ever going to exist in this, but it is what it is, and it's called fiction for a reason. Strangely, the Tuesday before Tommy was born, my grandparents' cat, also called Tommy, went missing. 
> 
> It feels markedly different writing this in the morning, I have to be honest. I'm not entirely sure I like it. I just fell asleep before I could do this last night, to be honest. I'd quite like to know what people think of the meeting with Eddie and the team's problems - I was trying to think of things that *could* be said as a joke, but would then cause actual uncertainty and suspicion among them. Besides that, though, read on!

The short walk through the hotel to where Eddie waits passes in silence. Owen is horribly aware of the thick lump in his throat, the damp slick building in the creases of his palms, and he feels antsy, restless. Yes, Eddie said what he said during their initial meeting, but… There’s always time to go back on it. Maybe Jonny’s right: maybe it’s about the Co-Captaincy or something; maybe Eddie will want one of them to step down. Maybe he wants to get rid of one of them altogether.

(Owen feels horribly guilty for it, but he can’t entirely suppress the thought that it would probably be Dylan who would get dropped.)

Out of the corner of his eye, he catches Dylan’s glance in his direction, spots the bob of his partner’s Adam’s apple. Drawing in a sharp breath, he wipes his hands on his trousers and reaches out, gripping Dylan’s hand tightly and getting a squeeze in return.

“I love you,” Dylan mutters under his breath, and as nice as the sentiment is, it only serves to make the situation feel all the more ominous.

Maybe they’re making a bigger deal out of it than it needs to be.

“Love you too,” he responds anyway. “Eddie’s got our backs, yeah?”

Dylan looks at him again, but doesn’t speak for several seconds – just watches him in silence as they walk. Owen meets his eyes for a brief moment, then turns back to watch where he’s going.

“Yeah,” Dylan agrees finally.

Outside the door, Dylan tugs gently at his hand, a silent plea to wait for a moment before going in. Out of the two of them, Owen thinks as he studies his partner’s face, Dylan might actually be the more nervous. For all that the older man was relieved earlier, maybe the anxiety is finally starting to settle in.

“It’s going to be fine,” he murmurs, offering a small smile. “Eddie –”

“Has our backs, I know,” Dylan rolls his eyes, and Owen’s smile relaxes into something a little less tight.

“I was going to say he’s a good bloke, actually.”

Dylan huffs a quiet breath, but nods and reaches out to knock on the door. Heart pounding just a little too quickly under his ribs, Owen clenches and unclenches his free hand – then realises that he’s doing the same with the hand holding Dylan’s when he hears a pained hiss beside him.

“Sorry,” he mutters, a beat before Eddie calls out.

“Come in!”

Dylan opens the door, holding it for Owen. Reluctantly, Owen steps into the room, settling into the chair that Eddie indicates as Dylan follows behind him and takes the seat at his side.

“How have you been, then, boys?”

“Alright, thanks,” Dylan nods, the smile he offers terse, and Owen examines him carefully for a moment, searching for any signs that he should take the lead in this – that Dylan needs to step back – but he sees nothing, so instead he sits back, content to let Dylan talk for them both. “And yourself?”

“I’m very well, thank you,” Eddie inclines his head, then looks down at the paper in front of him, covered in the coach’s own scrawl. “I’ve got some notes here from my talk with George, which I’d like to run through with you – things that George has told me, thoughts I’ve had myself, and then obviously ideas of how to approach the team about it – if that’s alright with you both?”

“Sounds good,” Dylan confirms.

Drawing in a deep breath, Owen forces himself to settle. It won’t do any good if he’s feeling antsy and defensive going into this.

“Alright,” Eddie picks up his notes, fixing them with a serious look. “The first point would be that your suspicions are… unfortunately correct. Several of the boys have been discussing their discomfort of changing with you, and there have notably been a few… derogatory comments when those discussions have become more heated.”

Cautiously, Owen dares a glance at Dylan and swallows as he spots the tight anger building in the tension of his partner’s clenched jaw. He’s not entirely sure that Dylan ever got over hearing homophobic sentiment, even after Folau’s comments in the spring. No doubt, Dylan will not take this particularly well either.

“What comments?” Dylan asks, voice steady – too steady.

“I didn’t make specific notes of what George said – you’d be better off asking him,” Eddie starts, and Dylan’s hands clench, Owen eyeing him carefully. “ _But_ … I do remember that he mentioned the use of the term ‘faggot’, and there’s another issue that I’d like to come onto in a moment that would likely come under this.”

“Right.”

Owen doesn’t even need to be watching Dylan to know how aggravated the older man is feeling; it’s dripping from the monosyllabic word, sharp in the crisp bite of it, and the narrowing of Dylan’s eyes is merely an indignant accompaniment. Reaching out, he takes one of Dylan’s hands and threads their fingers forcefully together, waiting only for Dylan to relax his fist enough that he can feasibly manage it and keeping the discomfort of Dylan’s tight grip away from his own blank face. He needs to stay calm about this, think rationally. Maybe Dylan’s normally the calmer one, but Owen’s the one who’s used to this.

Owen’s the one who knows how to handle it.

“How you choose to deal with this… I’m not sure I can help you with that,” Eddie tells them. “Any support you need from me and the rest of the coaching team, we’d be happy to provide, but in terms of deciding how you do it… I can recommend that you sit them down and make it clear that you have no interest in any of them, but ultimately, it’s up to you.”

That’s all well and good, but surely that’s true for all of it, isn’t it? Owen can’t think of a single thing that Eddie would feel he had to tell them exactly how to respond to, isn’t sure he wants to know what that would entail. Why does Eddie feel the need to specify that?

“Sure,” he manages when it becomes clear that Dylan isn’t about to speak – and that if he did, it probably wouldn’t be suitable for the level-headed meeting that this is meant to be. “…What was the other thing they were…?”

Eddie sighs. Owen watches the coach’s lips purse, and gets the horrible feeling that this will actually surprise him, that it will really break the invisible line of what is and isn’t alright that he drew for himself a long time ago.

“There were jokes made,” the coach starts carefully. “About your Co-Captaincy. About your role, Owen, in particular. And about how you got that role.”

“Because I’m dating Dylan?” Owen asks, his voice strangely free of emotion as surprise, embarrassment and paranoid worry that maybe this really is why Eddie offered it war for prominence in his thoughts.

“Indeed,” Eddie glances back down at his notes. “George was very clear that any further comments were purely in the interest of continuing the joke, but I think, in discussing it, we were both of the opinion that there might be some genuine concerns in the team, which I wish to take a stronger hand in alleviating than the two of you might otherwise choose.”

Right. That… makes sense, Owen guesses. Owen hadn’t really thought about it, hadn’t really considered what the sudden change to Co-Captains might suggest to the team when they’ve only just found out about the relationship. None of them knew how long it was until today, and Owen’s willing to bet that the majority of them still don’t.

“What were the further comments?” Dylan asks, voice sharp, beside him.

“Ah…” Eddie grimaces, and Owen can’t help but think he looks distinctly uncomfortable as he turns his eyes to the paper in his hand. “It was all joking –”

“What were they?” Dylan’s hand tightens on Owen’s, squeezing to the point of pain, and Owen wonders if he shouldn’t interrupt and steer the discussion into what they can do about this instead of continuing down the road of what actually happened.

“Bearing in mind that this was all said as a joke,” Eddie looks up at them both, “There was some speculation about Owen and myself.”

Oh. _Oh._

Owen feels his cheeks heat up, blood rushing to his face as mortification sparks to light. The team are joking about him – what? Sucking Eddie off or something? Just to become Captain? And all because he’s gay, because he kissed another man in their presence? Yes, it’s a joke, and yes, he can see how they might lead onto it if they’re already laughing about what he might have done with Dylan – which he hates as well – but…

He’s so caught up in his own shock and humiliation that he almost doesn’t notice Dylan’s rising ire. He doesn’t, in fact, until the tight grip on his hand disappears, Dylan’s chair toppling backwards as his partner stands.

“Who?” Dylan grits out. “Did Ford say who –?”

“You’d have to ask him,” Eddie shakes his head, while Owen tries to work out why Dylan’s so angry, flushed red in the face with his hands once more tightly clenched into fists.

“Dylan…” he tries, but his partner merely shakes him away. “Dyl, they’re just joking. People have said worse about less –”

“That’s not on, Owen,” Dylan bites out, fixing him with a heated stare. “That’s not – That’s not on!”

As nice as Owen supposes it should be that Dylan’s getting defensive of him, it’s really more… irritating. If Owen wants to make a big deal out of it, he can do so. As it is, he’d rather shove it to the side and pretend he never heard it. He just needs to get Dylan to sit down and shut the fuck up.

“We need to finish this talk,” Owen reminds his partner flatly. “Then you can go have a strop about it afterwards.”

“Do you even _care_ what people are saying about you?” Dylan demands. “Saying you’re – what? _Whoring_ yourself out for the Captain’s role?”

“They’re not saying…” Owen’s face burns ever hotter. “They were joking about that.”

“Maybe not about you and me!”

“That was more…” Owen searches for a way to explain it. “You know, a favouritism thing. It wasn’t about…”

To his relief, Eddie nods in agreement.

“I don’t think anyone’s seriously suggesting that Owen’s using sex to climb any ladders,” the coach soothes, and luckily, Dylan relaxes enough to reach for his chair and right it, dropping back into it. “There’s just one more thing I wanted to talk to you about – one concern the boys have that I’ve mostly trusted you with…”

Owen swallows, shifting uncomfortably. He thinks he _might_ know what’s coming, might have a sneaking suspicion of what Eddie is talking about.

“The room-sharing,” Eddie tells them, and, _yep_. “Obviously, partners are not normally permitted to stay in the hotel with the team. However, the two of you not only stay together, but often room together. Several of the boys apparently don’t consider this to be fair.”

“We don’t do anything,” Owen blurts out immediately – which is true, really, for the most part; they’ve only broken their self-imposed rule a handful of times. “We’ve got separate beds, and we stick to them.”

Again, _for the most part._

“I trust you both to be professional,” Eddie assures them, and the twist of his lips suggests he suspects that Owen is only speaking in general terms. “But perhaps you could say that to the rest of the team, try to alleviate their concerns a little. If we could return to the Co-Captaincy issue, however… I’d like to have some input into how you address it with the team.”

Owen shares a look with Dylan, glad to see that the older man has calmed down somewhat. In all honesty, Owen isn’t sure he wants to address this issue with the team at all, would rather pretend that he doesn’t know that some of them are questioning his right to lead the team, his honesty in earning the honour. It hurts that they don’t think he’s good enough for it without using his partner as a crutch to further his career. At the same time, he doesn’t think he has much of a choice in the matter.

“Alright,” Dylan agrees for the both of them.

 

“The entire Prem knows about us, apparently,” Owen starts carefully on the way back to their room, and Dylan shoots him a sharp look.

“What? How?”

“Boys telling their teammates,” Owen shrugs. “How else do you think?”

“What, like Ford telling Tigers?” Dylan snorts.

Something in the older man’s voice seems a little… _off_ to Owen, and he glances over at Dylan to see a new crease marring his partner’s brow, Dylan glowering at the floor ahead of them.

“Probably not,” he ventures while he tries to gauge exactly what Dylan’s problem is. “Fordy wouldn’t tell anyone.”

“Of course _Fordy_ wouldn’t,” Dylan rolls his eyes, and Owen blinks, utterly perplexed.

“Er…” he tries to steer the conversation back to what he _had_ wanted to talk about. “We’re probably going to have to get ready for everyone knowing. And Elliot thinks Folau’s going to know.”

“For fuck’s sake,” Dylan mutters under his breath, thankfully seeming to follow Owen’s lead. “Today’s just getting better and better, isn’t it?”

Owen has to agree – but silently, because he doesn’t want Dylan feeling like he’s allowed to get all riled up again, and because he _really_ doesn’t want to talk about it. It’s too embarrassing. Seriously, what the fuck, lads? Getting it on with Eddie is a bit far, even for a joke.

For now, he feels like the best option is to joke about it all a little themselves – _without_ actually talking about it.

“When we agreed to leave celebrating our anniversary for after the game, I didn’t think it would be _this_ extreme…”

Dylan huffs a reluctant laugh, nudging him gently as they slow to a stop outside their room.

“…We’re talking to them after dinner, yeah?”

“Yeah,” Owen nods, pulling out his key-card. “Just… Explain that we’re not interested in any of them, we keep it as separate from rugby as possible, and we’re not taking advantage of it to get around anything.”

“Captaincy _or_ room-sharing,” Dylan nods, holding the door for Owen to step inside, then following him in. “Just… Be honest with me for a moment, Faz.”

Owen turns to him, tilting his head expectantly, and Dylan sighs.

“I… Don’t take this badly, but… Can you just tell me if you’re…?”

“What?” Owen frowns.

“Are you definitely not interested in anyone on the team?”

Owen can’t stop the incredulous laugh that escapes.

“What, because I’m gay?” he demands. “Are you interested in any of your teammates’ girlfriends – or wives or whatever?”

“No, that’s not…” Dylan grimaces, and Owen folds his arms, jaw set. “I didn’t mean it like that. Not about you being gay.”

“Then what?” Owen presses, watching as Dylan crosses the room to drop down onto the sofa with a sigh.

“Just… Come sit down for a moment?” Dylan requests.

Briefly, Owen hesitates, caught between his offended indignation and the thought that he’d rather not have yet _another_ argument with Dylan, especially not on their anniversary – and when they have so much else going on. Rolling his eyes, he follows Dylan’s path to sink onto a cushion and stretch his legs out in front of himself, one ankle crossed over the other as he turns his head to watch Dylan.

“You… What you said when we first got together,” Dylan starts, “About how you knew you were gay… It’s been weighing on my mind, lately. And I just… You spend a lot of time with Ford. I know you’ve said he’s not your type, but –”

“You think I’m into _Fordy_?” Owen gapes, unable to hide his astonishment, but Dylan merely fixes him with a flat, unimpressed stare.

“Are you?”

“What – _No_!” Owen tries not to scrunch his nose up too much, but the idea of dating George is…

He’s been with Dylan for a year, for one. He’s quite happy like that, thanks very much: doesn’t need to be chasing other men, even – or especially – when they have arguments. And then there’s Fordy himself, who is one of the greatest friends Owen could imagine, but… He’s been there, done that, in terms of liking George, and it’s not something he thinks he’ll be going back to anytime soon.

“You’re sure?” Dylan presses.

“Am I – Yes, I’m sure!” Owen rolls his eyes. “Fuck’s sake, Dylan!”

“Alright, I’m sorry,” Dylan holds his hands up. “I just needed to know, okay?”

Huffing, Owen decides against complaining further, instead toeing off his shoes and shifting around to set his feet up on Dylan’s lap, earning a soft snort from his partner for his efforts. For a moment, they sit in semi-comfortable silence – they’ve got a little while until their next training session, and Owen’s more than content to relax here for a moment – then someone knocks on the door, and Dylan stands with a sigh to answer it.

“I was wondering if we could talk to Faz?”

Jamie’s voice is soft, uncertain, and Owen closes his eyes for a second, composing himself before he twists to nod at Dylan.

“Come in,” Dylan invites, stepping aside, and Owen watches Maro follow Jamie into the room.

“We won’t be long,” Jamie promises. “I just… Listen, Faz, about what happened with Manu… We’re sorry, we should’ve listened to you, but we were just concerned, and you can’t deny it’s been bothering you.”

“What’s this?” Dylan asks immediately, and Owen sighs, scrubbing a hand over his eyes.

“Just the looks,” he explains. “Jinx, Maz and some of the other lads got a bit…”

He searches for the right word and comes up short, shrugging and lifting his feet so that Dylan can sit back down before resettling them on his partners thighs.

“Protective?” Dylan fills in for him, and he nods.

“I overreacted,” he offers his clubmates in return for the apology. “Sorry. I just… I really can handle myself.”

“We said it before,” Maro shrugs. “You shouldn’t have to. We understand that we should have respected your feelings on it, though, so… Just know that we won’t be holding back on Folau.”

Owen feels Dylan’s hand settle on one ankle, squeezing gently.

“Neither will we,” his partner assures.

 

Several hours later finds Owen shifting nervously, apprehension buzzing in his chest as he surveys his audience. For some stupid fucking reason, Dylan and Eddie seem to think he should be the one doing most of the talking for this, because he’s the one who’s actually gay and they’re planning on making the team aware of that, so here he is, standing in front of the entire England squad with one hand cupping the other, shifting his weight anxiously from side to side until the last man is settled.

“I’d like to talk to you all,” he starts carefully, “About mine and Dylan’s relationship. I know – I know a lot of you have had concerns since you found out, and we’ve decided that we need to clear the air about a few of the problems that seem to be coming up.”

That’s a good start, he thinks. A good, solid start. If he can keep this up, he’ll be fine.

“Firstly, we know that a lot of you aren’t comfortable in certain situations, such as showering after training. To be honest, lads…” he chews his lip, glancing over all of them to make sure that he has all of their attention. “That’s frankly ridiculous. For a start, there’s no reason to be uncomfortable around Dylan, because he’s not really attracted to men very often. Just me.”

He pauses to let that sink in, holding for a beat before continuing – just long enough to register what he’s said without being able to talk about it.

“So really, it’s only me you need to be concerned about, and I don’t know if you missed it, but I’m in a committed relationship already. If you haven’t realised that, I don’t know where you’ve been the last month.”

He gets some quiet laughter for that.

“And also, I’ve got to be serious here…” the laughter dies down. “Most of you aren’t that fit.”

He’s relieved to hear Kyle’s loud cackle, a mixture of surprise and amusement filling the sound as the Prop throws his head back.

“He’s got us there!”

That gets several more chuckles in itself, and Owen waits a moment for quiet to resettle, relaxing slightly as he looks around at them all. He can do this. These are good lads: his teammates, and he’s got a great bond with each and every one of them. He’ll be fine.

“So, if you’re not worried about that anymore,” he draws in a deep lungful of air. “Our next issue is the Co-Captains situation.”

He doesn’t really like how serious the atmosphere in the room seems to become almost immediately.

“That has nothing to do with mine and Dylan’s relationship,” he tells them firmly. “Eddie’s known about the two of us since the start of the year, for one, and this Co-Captaincy is a far more recent thing. Me and Dylan have actually been together a year – our first date was a year ago today, so –”

He’s cut off by some gentle clapping, Elliot offering a loud wolf-whistle that cuts through the middle of it all, and though Owen feels his cheeks flush, it’s a smile that grows on his face.

“So it’s sort of a bit out time-wise,” he concludes over the fading applause. “And… We try and keep it as far away from rugby as possible. Which means that we don’t take advantage of sharing a room, which is another thing we know you’ve been concerned about. It’s not unfair that your partners aren’t allowed to stay in the hotel with you, because we keep ourselves professional.”

That’s… all he needs to say, really. And it went far quicker than expected.

“Anyone got any other concerns?” he checks just in case, and when no one speaks up, he relaxes. “If you do, I’m not going to call you a homophobe if you ever want to talk to me about it. This team is built on trust and respect, yeah? That has to go in all directions.”

When the team nods, he presses his lips together in a tight smile. Thank _fuck_ for this being over.

“Actually…” Ben stands. “I do have a concern that I’d like to talk to the team about.”

Surprised, Owen blinks. He thought he was in the clear, certainly didn’t expect anything to come from _Ben_ , of all people, who’s seemed fine with it all. Still, he steps to the side, letting Ben take his place and hovering a little to the left.

“I want to talk about who we’ve got coming to Twickenham this weekend,” Ben starts, and Owen watches, confused, as several players nod. “Because we’ve got gay… Hang on, we’ve got a gay Captain and a… whatever-Dyl-is Captain. We’ve got Co-Captains in a gay relationship, at any rate. And never mind that they’re our Captains: they’re our teammates. Now, we’ve got Israel Folau coming here in two days, and he’s said some pretty appalling shit in the past. Chances are, he knows about Faz and Dyl, and if he does, we’ve got to be ready for him to say something.”

Ben takes a deep breath; Owen tries to hide his mild astonishment at the words, and at the reaction of the entire team, all of them nodding along as if they’ve been thinking exactly the same thing.

“Even if he doesn’t say anything, even if he doesn’t even know, I say we give him hell, because he’s insulted _our_ Captains, and that’s not on. On Saturday, we’re wearing rainbow laces, we’re showing Gareth Thomas our support, and we’re showing Faz and Dyl it too. They’ve been quiet, they’ve let us have our adjustment period when really, we shouldn’t have needed it – and I hold my hands up, I wasn’t ready to just let it lie straight away – but we’ve had that time, and they’re our Captains, and if Folau thinks he can come here and spread his homophobic bullshit on _our turf_ , he’d better think again, you hear me? We’re going to give him hell, and if he says a _fucking word_ to Faz or Dyl, we’re going to turn him inside out! You understand?”

“Hearing you loud and clear, Youngsy,” Elliot rubs his hands together almost gleefully.

Owen looks around at the team, taking in the determined glint in their eyes, the set in every man’s jaw, and as he finds Dylan’s gaze and holds it, he can’t help but feel that maybe, just maybe, things will be alright after all.

_Touch wood._


	20. Chapter 20

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm back! My skin is peeling something awful, everything stings from chlorine burn, my hair is like straw and my back has gone rock solid, but at least I can walk up stairs again - an ability which deserted me rather unfortunately when I had to go up and down stairs to get to my room several times a day, along with any capacity to kick with my left leg or even raise it off the ground from a lying position without using my hands to lift it up. At any rate, I didn't expect to get this out, but here we are... And how coincidental, in a week when Folau has apparently decided to be a dick and Billy has wandered off to see what it's like as well... (But I do agree with the people saying he should be educated rather than just dropped. Just... It's all very well him saying that he doesn't like people insulting what he grew up believing, but Mako's done a spectacular job of keeping his mouth shut and not liking Instagram posts, hmm?) Also coincidental is that, shortly after finishing this in the middle of watching the most recent two episodes of GoT as a recap, I read Chapter 8 (?) of 'wine gums in winter', which covers the ENGvAUS game as well - interesting to see the differences, and a great read.
> 
> I've got to be honest, I did actually add a bit more to this chapter in the process of writing these notes. And in ten minutes, we should be watching GoT!!! Well, seven, now. Very exciting... 
> 
> But anyway. Yes. Not so happy with the Sarries loss. (Four minutes... I keep getting distracted.) Yep. Time to go, I think. Hope you like the chapter - and that you're all alright after what Folau's said.
> 
> Actually, while I remember: WARNING for HOMOPHOBIA in this chapter. Because of course discussing Folau reminded me.

The roar of the stadium is incredible. It always is, here at Twickenham; Owen loves it, loves the noise and the fans and the atmosphere, and more than anything, the awareness of his team’s emotions, the knowledge that they’re all as fired up as he is. And _shit_ , they’re fired up.

Owen hasn’t really seen much of Folau, yet – is only vaguely conscious of the Australian’s presence on the other side of the tunnel – but he’s more than aware that it’s not entirely down to chance; he hasn’t missed the glowers of his teammates in Folau’s direction, and so far, he thinks it’s been enough to keep the other man away. No doubt, however, that will change as soon as the match gets underway.

Adjusting the mascot’s hand in his, he lifts his head to stare out at the pitch, waiting just a little impatiently to get out onto it. Genia is jogging out, so that means he’ll be out there soon, and then they can get this show on the road. As he steps forward, Ben touches his arm, leaning in while he pauses to hear what his teammate has to say.

“We’ve got your back, Skips,” the Scrum-half tells him, and he acknowledges the reassurance with a short nod, then smiles down at the little girl watching him curiously and starts out onto the turf.

The match itself is… _fun_ , in a way that only exacting revenge on a player that not a single member of the team likes can be. Although the majority of Owen’s attention remains on the game, he is subconsciously aware of every crunching tackle on Folau, a little more satisfaction blooming inside him with each glimpse he gets of the Full-back’s stiff, cautious gait during breaks in play. No one appreciates Folau’s try – Owen particularly hates his missed tackle, _and Folau’s_ _smug grin, that fucking bastard_ – but the aggressive roar of disapproval from the crowd is almost enough to bring a smile to his face; clearly, they’re starting to pick up on the anger channelled in Folau’s direction today.

At half-time, a hand clips him around the back of the head, and he yelps in surprise rather than pain – it was a gentle hit – as he twists to find Dylan staring at him.

“I thought we agreed never again?” his partner asks pointedly. “Rodda, Owen, really?”

Sheepish, Owen shrugs. He doesn’t _particularly_ want to acknowledge how lucky he was in escaping a yellow for that – and a penalty try, too.

“He dropped the shoulder on me,” he points out innocently. “And at least he didn’t score.”

Dylan rolls his eyes.

“Should’ve saved it for Folau,” the older man tells him, but seems to concede the issue for now. “He hasn’t said anything, has he?”

“I’ve barely seen him,” Owen assures, offering a smile – though he almost wishes Folau would do _something_ , because then it would give Owen an excuse to punish him for everything he’s said.

“You’ll tell me if he does?”

“Stop fussing,” Owen shoves him lightly (and yes, the protectiveness is a bit irritating). “You’d be able to tell.”

If the first half was fun, the second half is utterly exhilarating. Elliot’s run is incredible – Owen loves setting that sort of break up, loves watching the faster boys on his team finish like that – and he has to admit that he enjoys crossing over himself. Folau getting another try is undeniably frustrating, but at the end of the day, they’ve won, and Owen’s been _ridiculously_ lucky. He’s just going to pretend that he was fine, though.

All in all, it’s been a good day.

It’s as he lines up behind Nathan to start shaking the Australian players’ hands that he starts to feel a little tense. He can’t see Folau, doesn’t know when he might run into the other man, and Dylan has escaped his sight as well. Something about not being able to see either of them unsettles him, leaves him antsy and edging with the urge to ignore his opponents in favour of searching for his partner.

In the end, he’s so distracted by not knowing where Dylan is that he doesn’t realise when Folau appears right in front of him until they’re shaking hands. To his surprise, he finds himself pulled into a one-armed embrace – then Folau’s grip on him tightens, and the older man leans in as Owen stiffens, not quite willing to pull back and make a scene.

“Your sins will ruin you,” Folau tells him, and then he’s gone, leaving Owen to reel in shock, barely even registering the next player to shake his hand and stepping forward only in automatic response to the brush of Brad behind him.

He doesn’t think he really expected Folau to say anything, doesn’t think he ever believed Folau would dare, but here he has, in front of 80 000 fans, with both of their teams around them. Owen doesn’t know what to do, what to say, can only stretch out a hand to greet yet another player as his brain spins with the confirmed knowledge that Folau knows, and the slowly dawning awareness of what Folau just said.

A moment later, Nathan twists around to look at him, brow creasing into a heavy frown as he takes in the shock that must be pasted clearly across Owen’s countenance.

“Did he say something?”

Owen shakes the next player’s hand and takes the opportunity to look away from Nathan, offering a non-committal shrug in place of an answer when Foley moves on.

“Mate,” Nathan stops completely in his tracks, and Owen sighs under his breath; he doesn’t want to make a big deal out of this, would far rather sweep it under the carpet and move on. “What did he say?”

“Nothing big,” Owen waves it away. “Don’t worry about it.”

“Folau said something?” Brad asks behind him.

“Just some religious shit,” Owen forces a smile for his next opponent, horribly aware that they’re drawing attention, just stood here in the middle of the pitch. “ _Nothing big_.”

“Faz, you don’t have to –”

“ _Nothing big_ ,” Owen bites out insistently, the third time he’s said it, and looks up at the next player – thankfully the last – with the barest hint of a polite smile etched painfully into his cheeks.

_Your sins will ruin you_. Yeah, there’s not a fucking chance that Dylan will be hearing about this. If he tells these lads, Dylan will definitely find out, and then his partner will go ballistic. Owen’s not in the mood to deal with one of Dylan’s righteous tantrums. And okay, maybe Dylan’s sort of right to get indignant about it, but Owen got tired of caring about it all long ago. That’s not to say he _doesn’t_ care, he just… wishes he didn’t have to. Wishes he could block it all off.

Like being told that loving who he loves is a sin could ever be brushed aside. Like he could ever pretend that being told that he’ll be sentenced to eternal damnation for something he can’t control doesn’t bother him.

It would be nice, is all. And it’s a little easier without Dylan overreacting about it all the time. So no, he won’t be telling anyone about this, because that’s the best way to ensure that Dylan won’t keep on about it, and instead, he can just forget it happened – because frankly, it’s humiliating that he just let it happen, that he even has such a weakness in the first place.

“Farrell?”

Owen looks up, turning to find Hooper to his left, apparently having just finished a conversation with Brad.

“Alright, mate?” he nods, trying not to look too confused as to why the Australian Captain has come to talk to him; they’ve already shaken hands, haven’t they?

“Yeah, listen…” Hooper’s smile is clearly meant to be friendly, but there’s a tightness to it – clearly, he isn’t about to forgive Owen for the _entirely legal shoulder charge_ on Rodda. “Forgot to say this to you earlier – we all support you and Hartley. What you’re doing is incredibly brave. If I was in your shoes, I don’t think I’d ever have the guts to…”

He huffs out a wry chuckle, shaking his head, and Owen tries not to shift too uncomfortably – or look too sceptical. They _all_ support him and Dylan, do they?

“Thanks,” he manages, and then, because simply accepting a compliment feels too awkward, adds, “We’re just trying to be ourselves, really. That’s all.”

“No reason why that can’t be brave,” Hooper claps him on the shoulder, perhaps a little aggressively, as if the body part in question has caused him personal grievance; belatedly, Owen remembers that this was the shoulder that went into Rodda.

_Oops._

“I’ll see you around, yeah?” he gets out before Hooper’s gaze can burn a whole through his shirt and straight into his flesh, like the other man clearly wants it to. “I’ll let Dylan know what you said.”

“Right,” Hooper nods, slowly releasing him with one last fleeting death glare directed towards Owen’s shoulder. “…Of course.”

Owen makes his escape.

 

_Your sins will ruin you_.

Owen can’t force the words from his mind, and he hates it. It’s not that he believes them – of course he doesn’t – but… That Folau is bold enough to say it to him, believes it so deeply that he is willing to say it to any gay man’s face, never mind Owen’s: it scares him. People who believe things like that so immovably are dangerous.

They don’t see how their words, their actions, are anything but right, and that means that they could easily resort to something worse. Like what happened to Gareth Thomas.

_Your sins will ruin you._

Being gay is not a sin. It’s not a crime, either – at least, not in the UK. It’s not a choice, and Owen has as much right as anyone else to love who he loves. Folau can’t tell him otherwise. His own doubts did, though, as a teenager: based off a similar premise, if slightly less religious – that it was wrong, that it would ruin him and his family, that he had failed them. Now, he just has to remember that he’s past that, that there’s nothing wrong with him, that people can’t look at him and see that he’s a freak, that he shouldn’t be there, just with that one sweep of their eyes.

Still, he can’t get the words from his mind, can’t dislodge them from their comfortable resting place inside his skull, where they lounge about, drifting back and forth. Frustration builds rapidly as he stares up at the darkness and the ceiling obscured behind it; he wants to stop thinking about it, to stop stressing, but he can’t. There’s no forgetting Folau’s arm tight around him, the words hushed, urgent, and most horribly earnest, like Folau really thought he was doing Owen a favour.

_Your sins will ruin you._

No, they won’t. Owen won’t let them.

 

It’s two days after getting home that Owen gets a call from Dylan – when he’s out walking Ronnie, enjoying the fresh air and the chance to finally relax. 

“So, Hask mentioned something today,” his partner starts, and Owen wonders immediately what he’s done wrong.

He knows that tone: that’s Dylan’s passive aggressive tone, the one edged with ‘ _what-the-fuck-Owen-why-would-you_ -do _-that_ ’ and dripping with ‘ _for-fuck’s-sake-you-should-know-what-I’m-talking-about_ ’.

“Did he…?” he hedges carefully, shifting Ronnie’s lead to the other hand to readjust his phone.

“ _Yes_ ,” Dylan grits out, the word filled with irritation, anger and frustrated indignation. “Apparently, some of the Wasps lads told him about something that happened on Saturday. Something he thought I’d _know_.”

“Um…” Owen searches for something to fill in the blank.

“Can you think of _anything_ that Brad Shields and Nathan Hughes might know that you neglected to tell me?”

Oh. Shit.

“Folau?” he sighs, and gets a wordless grunt of aggravated affirmation. “Listen, it really wasn’t much –”

“He said something to you when you went to shake his hand?” Dylan asks.

Well, there went Dylan not finding out. It’s irritating, because as much as Owen thought not telling his partner would allow him to forget about it, he hasn’t actually managed to shake the words away. They keep circling around and around inside his skull, echoing back and forth through his mind when he’s not quite ready to go to sleep at night, dogging his steps whenever he steps out of the house, shadowed too by the reminder of Gareth Thomas’ video.

“Yeah,” he admits. “It wasn’t much, Dyl. I didn’t really want to talk about it…”

“No I get that,” Dylan agrees, to his relief; he _really_ doesn’t want to fight over a homophobe who would probably be delighted to cause a rift between them. “I just… You could’ve told me, Owen. Or at least someone who could make sure he was punished.”

“I didn’t want to make a big deal out of it,” Owen tugs Ronnie gently away from some suspicious looking plants. “He didn’t say much, so…”

“What did he actually say, then?”

It’s clear in Dylan’s tone that the older man doesn’t believe him. It irks Owen a little bit, that Dylan feels such a need to be protective over him that he can’t even let Owen’s insistence that it’s fine be enough. He just has to check himself, doesn’t he? Of course he does.

“‘Your sins will ruin you,’” he quotes flatly. “Just some religious bullshit is all –”

On the other end of the connection, Dylan makes a choked noise.

“ _Just some religious bullshit_?” he splutters. “Owen – Faz – That’s not – He can’t get away with things like that!”

“Well, he did,” Owen points out simply, which maybe isn’t the best thing to say, but it’s true.

“Well, he shouldn’t!” Dylan snaps back. “You should’ve told me! I could’ve –”

“I can look after myself,” Owen reminds him, just a little annoyed now.

As if he can tell that Owen’s emotions are getting the better of him, Ronnie trots over to wind himself around Owen’s legs – something which would probably help if Ronnie wasn’t attached to a lead which Owen has now become tangled in.

“Yeah, but he shouldn’t have said that to you. You shouldn’t have to –”

“For fuck’s sake, Dylan, I’m not your fucking _girlfriend_!”

Owen’s fed up of being told that he shouldn’t have to look after himself, stand up for himself, speak for himself or whatever. Everyone else does it, so why shouldn’t he? Why would he ever want someone else to fight his battles for him? Why would he ever _need_ it?

“Did I say you were?” Dylan retorts. “What the fuck does that have to do with anything – unless there’s something you haven’t told me?”

“Fuck off,” Owen tells him shortly. “I don’t need your help to deal with anyone, I don’t need you hovering over me like some sort of protective boyfriend – and getting jealous over other men, I mean, for fuck’s sake…”

“That doesn’t answer my question,” Dylan tells him.

“You’re treating me like your fucking girlfriend,” Owen lowers his voice so that he can’t be overheard, though by the slightly disturbed look a woman walking past shoots him, he’s not entirely sure it works. “Always acting so protective, getting jealous, holding doors open, getting chairs – I’m not a woman, and you can’t just treat me like one. You can’t just assume that I work the same way –”

“Have you ever thought that maybe that’s just a normal relationship?” Dylan interrupts. “Maybe I’m just, you know, being protective because you’re my boyfriend and I care about you? And I’m getting jealous because you were spending a lot of time with the man _you_ admitted is the reason you knew you were gay? And holding doors open is just polite. I’m not treating you like my girlfriend, I’m treating you like my partner, whom I happen to love and want to be happy.”

“Yeah, which is why you’re the first guy to ever complain about me not telling you all of my problems,” Owen snorts derisively. “Just back off, alright?”

“No,” Dylan tells him, far calmer than Owen would like, as if he thinks he’s being reasonable. “Have you ever thought that _maybe_ , that’s the reason all of your past relationships have fallen apart completely? I mean, that, and your complete inability to open up to anyone even when they do try to insist on it?”

Owen’s very glad that Dylan isn’t here to see his cheeks flush.

“I’m not going to back off, because I care about you, and the idea that my boyfriend doesn’t feel comfortable telling me when some bastard has said something homophobic towards him doesn’t sit well. We’re in a _relationship_. That’s meant to be mutual and willing. You haven’t been dragged into this kicking and screaming.”

Huffing out a breath, Owen searches for a response to that. He sometimes feels like he’s been dragged into this, to be honest – or at least, that now he’s here, he’s trapped, unable to escape. He’s utterly failed in reducing his dependency on Dylan, he thinks, and here his partner wants him to use Dylan for even more support?

The comment about his past relationships, though, has set him questioning things. It’s true that maybe, sometimes, he wants to talk about things, but of course he wouldn’t, because telling someone about all of that is just asking for trouble. Dylan proved it a few weeks ago. It’s just… Most of his past relationships have ended in arguments, either because he’s been pissed off with something that they keep doing and that he hasn’t mentioned bothers him, or because the sex hasn’t been enough to make up for one another’s obvious flaws anymore – and normally, that dissolves into a shouting match, occasionally with objects thrown, and one memorable occasion when one particular boyfriend – they didn’t even last a month, and he _hated_ the secrecy – called Owen a ‘cold-hearted bitch’. That one stuck with Owen a while: it made him feel emasculated. Just like Dylan’s behaviour does.

“Right, if you want me to tell you when things bother me, I don’t like being treated like a _woman_ ,” he grits out. “I have my own problems, and I deal with _my own problems_.”

“That’s not how relationships work,” Dylan’s tone is too patient, too patronising, and Owen doesn’t like it at all.

“Yeah, in _your_ experience,” Owen fires back. “Because you’ve only dated women. And I’ve only dated men, which is what both of us are doing at the moment.”

“Or _maybe_ , because I’ve just had better relationships than you!” Dylan’s frustration finally breaks through a little. “Remind me how long your longest has been?”

Owen glances down at Ronnie as the dog tugs at his lead a little, sending Owen stumbling slightly with the cord still wrapped around his legs.

“Two and a half months,” he mutters reluctantly. “Yours haven’t been _much_ better…”

“More than three times as long as yours,” Dylan points out. “Wonder why, hmm?”

“Because women have too much patience,” Owen starts the process of untangling himself from Ronnie’s lead.

“ _You_ ’ve put up with me for longer than any of them have.”

Irritatingly, Owen doesn’t have an answer to that. He wouldn’t say he’s put up with Dylan – more that he hasn’t been able to give up the positives when the negatives start to get to him. Somehow, he doesn’t think saying that will help him in this.

“Have you ever noticed how most of our fights happen because we don’t communicate about something?” Dylan presses, even as Owen staggers and curses internally, even more caught up than he realised. “You think that doesn’t… tell you something?”

Owen stays silent, trying to think of an example that doesn’t amount to that. He can’t come up with anything.

“Yeah, well…”

He’s almost free. It’s just difficult to hold a phone with one hand and detangle himself with the other.

“Look, I get that you’re not comfortable, Owen,” Dylan sighs finally. “I… We’ve had this conversation too many times. Every single time we fight, we both agree – we need to communicate more. And then you just go back to not telling me _anything_ –”

“Not like _you_ tell me anything,” Owen snorts. “Spent a good few days getting stroppy around Fordy before you said anything.”

“So maybe I need to work on it as well,” Dylan concedes, which irritates Owen all the more, because Dylan isn’t _supposed_ to just give in like that. “You’re not playing this weekend, are you? Come up and visit?”

“Why?” Owen asks, just a little suspicious.

“So we can talk. Not just for five minutes. Properly sit down and talk, when we haven’t just had an argument.”

“You’ll have a match to play.”

Finally, Owen is free of the lead, and he can’t help but huff a sigh of relief. Ronnie barks at him enthusiastically, and he rolls his eyes, but starts walking again.

“And I’ll have an entire weekend around that,” Dylan tells him. “Time to sort out our issues.”

“They’re not issues –”

“They _are_ issues,” Dylan’s voice is firm. “And we need to sort them. We’ve been together for more than a year, Owen – it’s time we sorted this.”

Owen hesitates, caught between agreement and uncertainty. He can’t find a fault in anything Dylan’s saying, as much as he wants to, as much as he’s been trying – and he _does_ want this sorted, doesn’t particularly enjoy the stress that this relationship can cause, but certainly isn’t ready to cut it off. At the same time… He still doesn’t want to talk about it.

But Dylan seems to be saying that really, that’s the problem. Maybe – probably – he’s right.

“Fine.”


	21. Chapter 21

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We're back! At... 00:56, according to my laptop clock. And I'm up at 06:50 for training - admittedly, an hour later than a normal Saturday, at that. Ah, well... I'm not tired, so we'll see what happens, shall we? 
> 
> Anyone watch GoT? Oh. My. Life. That first episode, I don't even... I won't spoil it in case someone's behind already, but... Yeah... 
> 
> ...and it's now 01:00. Good to know my sleeping habits are becoming more messed up the closer I get to having to shove myself back into a routine.
> 
> Just one thing to say about this chapter: I feel that it does need a WARNING for internalised homophobia, which maybe should've gone in some of the other chapters as well, but it's more that it comes in combination with some unhealthy attitudes towards looking after your mental health. You don't need to have a disorder to need a little support, and you should always communicate with your loved ones about how you're feeling; the more open and honest you are, the better. If anyone ever doesn't want to talk to someone who knows them personally, but needs to have a few words, I'm always here. But... yeah. Owen's having some serious reaction formation issues here. 
> 
> (Also, an entirely separate warning: I did finish writing this just about 10/15 minutes ago, so... For all I know, I've gone completely out of my mind in this chapter. At least I haven't done what I was tempted to do earlier, though, which happens every time I listen to Coldplay and even THINK about this, but - *cough*. Don't worry about that. As for potential sleep deprivation, I just can't get any of my letters in the right order any more and I keep mashing my words strangely, but that's actually fairly normal for me these days, so sorry if that appears. It's also one of my longer chapters, as has been happening lately, so that's exciting.)
> 
> ...It's 01:08. Also, what do people think of me randomly introducing Ronnie? Is that weird? Like, I was juggling with whether or not to introduce him - I left Dylan's dog out altogether - and really, there weren't any scenes that he *needed* to be in, so... It works, I just don't know if it seems like it shouldn't. (01:09)

This is… weird. Owen’s not entirely sure he likes this, sat in a cold stadium without any of his teammates, watching two teams who are decidedly _not_ his own battle it out. Sure, he’s got a good seat, and sure, the atmosphere is great – not to mention, it’s Dylan’s 250 th appearance for Saints – but he feels out of place, very much isolated among two sets of fans who don’t like his club just as much as they don’t like each other. Still, it’s nice to come out and show his support for Dylan, and at least no one’s tried to have a go at him about being a double-limb amputee or some shit like that yet.

The shrill blast of the Ref’s whistle cuts both the air and Owen’s thoughts, and he watches the ball soar high, hunching forward to settle his elbows on his knees and watch the game closely.

_Come on, Saints…_

Owen frowns through most of the first twenty minutes, not particularly appreciating Newcastle’s lead, then Saints score their first try and he cheers with the rest of the crowd, ignoring the confused glances shot his way – or trying to, at any rate. As much as he wants to remain unbothered by the faint hostility and the knowledge that him supporting Saints is very much unusual, he can’t quite manage it. That doesn’t mean he’s going to let his discomfort show, though.

Saints go in at half-time in the lead, and a small smile touches at Owen’s lips as he watches Dylan disappear into the changing rooms. He wants Dylan to get a win on a special occasion like this – well, he wants Dylan to get a win full stop. Saints might not be _his_ team, but they’re Dylan’s team, and that’s what matters.

“Excuse me?”

Turning, he blinks at the woman standing next to him, a pen in hand and two young children at her side. It’s fairly obvious what she wants.

“Hi, you alright?” he smiles as he stands, holding out his hand for her to shake, and she takes it with a beam.

“I’m good, thank you. I was just wondering if you’d be willing to sign something for my kids…?”

As Owen takes the offered pen and the programme, one of the children pipes up, lisping slightly as he speaks.

“Who are you supporting?”

“Saints,” Owen crouches just a little to speak to him, setting the programme on a seat to sign it. “What about you?”

“Newcastle Falcons!” the kid cheers, his little sister joining in with a squeal, and Owen has to press his lips together to stifle his laughter at their enthusiasm: it’s cute, he can’t deny it. “Don’t you play for Saracens?”

“Yeah,” Owen finds himself nodding. “But I’m not playing for them this weekend, and I’ve got a… friend in the Saints team.”

“Oh,” is accompanied by a nod. “…Who?”

Above them both, his mother sighs.

“Don’t keep pestering the poor man, love…”

“It’s fine,” Owen assures her; it’s hardly like he has anything better to do, and at least it distracts him from sitting awkwardly on his own – and he likes kids, alright? “Dylan Hartley – you know the Saints Captain and Hooker? It’s his 250th appearance today.”

“Is that why you’re here?”

Owen laughs just a little at that.

“Nah, I’m just here anyway – I’ve come up to see him for the weekend, and it’s just a coincidence,” he explains. “I’ll let you in on a secret: we only saw each other a week ago, but he doesn’t have any other friends, so he gets lonely if I don’t come and talk to him.”

He winks as he says it, getting a giggle in return. He can picture the eye-roll that such a comment would have afforded him from Dylan, but Dylan isn’t here, so…

“Really?”

“No,” he laughs slightly louder this time. “Nah, he’s got other friends. Like his team.”

“Oh,” the kid deflates a little, but the effect doesn’t last for long. “Why are you friends if you play for different clubs?”

“We play for England together,” Owen tells him, handing the pen and programme back distractedly. “We share a room when we’re with the rest of the England team as well.”

“Oh,” the young boy nods. “That’s cool.”

_Cool._ Good to know that playing for England is as impressive as ever. Owen allows his wry smile to spread across his face, clapping the boy gently on the shoulder.

“I think so,” he agrees, then holds out his hand. “It’s been great meeting you – was that all you wanted, by the way, or…?”

He directs the words partly to the mother and partly to the children, and sees the boy perk up even further.

“Picture?” he asks his mother hopefully.

Two minutes later, Owen sits back down, relaxing into his seat. That was… easier than expected: to act casual, to pretend that his reason for being here is entirely innocent. Then again, maybe his real reason for visiting Dylan _is_ innocent – the main reason, at least. Talking out their problems isn’t exactly X-rated. Just the… rest of it. Which he’ll save thinking about for later. No point in making himself uncomfortable for the remainder of the match, especially when he might see a few of Dylan’s teammates afterwards.

(Or maybe none of it’s innocent. Maybe simply being in a relationship with Dylan makes it… Owen hasn’t thought about seeing another man as _wrong_ in years, not since he was a teenager, sneaking around without his parents’ knowledge, before his dad smiled at him after he’d finally stuttered out those words and stood, coming around the table to wrap Owen in a tight embrace and whisper that there was nothing wrong with him, that he was _fine_ – but… _Your sins will ruin you._ )

 

…Maybe ‘a few’ of Dylan’s teammates was an understatement. Owen wanders pitch-side at the end of the game, greeting Mark when he sees the younger man and trying not to look too frustrated over Newcastle’s win – he hates how hard it is to defend the posts when you’re on your own try-line, and really, it’s just taking the piss – only to find himself swamped by Saints players, apparently willing to use him as an excuse to forget their own disappointment at the loss.

“Skips!” someone yells as a hand ruffles Owen’s hair; he ducks, batting the touch away as they nudge him further from the stands. “Your boyfriend’s here!”

Cheeks heating instantly, Owen is all too aware that the words are clearly audible to the remaining fans in the closest seats – and to the TV crew, too. Dylan twists, frowning, then smiles at him, clearly not realising the issue with what’s just happened, and Owen finds himself shoved more bodily towards the older man.

“Cheer him up, yeah?” Courtney tells him. “Don’t want to be slaughtered next week – if he’s in a mood on Monday, it’s on you.”

Owen rolls his eyes, but crosses the turf anyway, Dylan approaching to meet him halfway.

“Sorry about the game,” he offers apologetically, but Dylan only shakes his head, reaching out to tangle their fingers together.

Owen stiffens immediately, trying instinctively to pull away, but Dylan merely grips tighter, fixing him with a firm look, and slowly, he forces himself to relax. He’s already here, and he’s talking to Dylan on the pitch, in full view of the cameras, after his relationship with Dylan has just been shouted for the world to hear. Holding hands is hardly going to be the only clue, is it? And anyone who can see it probably would’ve heard Owen being labelled Dylan’s boyfriend.

“At least it wasn’t Sarries,” Dylan sighs. “So _close_ …”

Humming in sympathy, Owen looks around at the emptying stadium.

“You defended well at the end,” he offers as he glances back at his partner. “Nearly eight minutes into overtime.”

Dylan shakes his head.

“Not well enough,” he mutters, which is entirely too relatable for Owen to be able to make it better. “You know the way home from here?”

“You want me to drive?” Owen cocks his head, then shrugs when Dylan nods. “I reckon I can work it out. Start from here and spiral outwards…”

That gets a huff of amusement – not quite laughter, but Dylan’s eyes crinkle a little at the corners, and he relaxes. At the very least, he looks calmer, now.

“I’ll see you in a bit,” Owen promises. “Meet you at the car, yeah?”

“Sure,” Dylan glances around, and Owen follows his gaze, notes that the cameras have all gone away, that the stadium is mostly – though far from entirely – empty of fans. “One kiss?”

Chewing his bottom lip, Owen hesitates. They’re already taking such a big risk, standing here in the middle of a rugby pitch, holding hands and standing entirely too close together – not to mention Owen simply being here in the first place. At the same time… Anyone looking at them would surely notice that anyway, regardless of whether they see Owen and Dylan kissing as well.

“I mean, we’re meant to be not caring…” Dylan presses gently. “Just to cheer me up? I heard what Courtney said.”

Owen rolls his eyes, leaning in and kissing his partner gently.

 

Owen wakes with his legs tangled in Dylan’s, his cheek pressed to his partner’s chest, Dylan’s fingers in his hair. Bleary and tired, comfortable within a hazy warmth, he makes no attempt to move, just stays there as Dylan’s nails start to scratch lightly over his scalp, tracing invisible patterns through the short strands of his hair then slowly trailing down to his neck. The touch sends shivers down his spine, and he has to shift a little, but not away from Dylan – of course not. He’d stay here all day if he could.

“Morning, love,” Dylan murmurs finally, voice rough and cracked from sleep, and he hums drowsily in reply, presses a kiss to the first available path of Dylan’s skin – just above his left nipple – but doesn’t bother with words. “…Did we kiss in the middle of the Gardens?”

_Er…_

“Yeah,” he manages, though he has to cough to clear his throat first, finally shifting his head to meet Dylan’s eyes. “Yeah, we did.”

“Thought as much,” Dylan sighs, but he doesn’t seem overly concerned, and Owen’s too settled, too cosy, to be worried if Dylan isn’t. “We should get up. Get breakfast, go for a walk or something.”

“We should,” Owen agrees.

Neither of them moves, aside from the continued ghosting of Dylan’s fingers over Owen’s spine. The house is silent, the room dimly lit by the faintest hint of sunlight peeking through the curtains. Owen’s muscles feel loose, relaxed, but his limbs aren’t heavy, which is nice; it’s hard to find the balance, difficult to relieve that tightness without slipping into chains of drowsiness, sometimes, or otherwise into restlessness and a constant frustration of needing to move.

“How many people saw us, do you think?” Dylan breaks the quiet finally.

“Whoever was left in the stadium,” Owen shrugs. “We’re meant to be acting normal.”

“Yeah,” Dylan concedes, soft and considering. “Yeah…”

“We _were_ holding hands in the middle of the pitch,” Owen adds. “And I came to watch you in the first place.”

Dylan chuckles lightly, and his arm shifts to wrap around the backs of Owen’s shoulders, squeezing just a little.

“Might’ve left a few clues,” he snorts. “If it comes out, it comes out.”

Very carefully, Owen avoids thinking about the real potential consequences of what they did, focuses his mind instead on the rise and fall of Dylan’s ribcage beneath him, the brush of Dylan’s breath through his hair. He doesn’t want to think about regretting it right now.

“Congratulations on 250,” he murmurs instead, to a faint huff from his partner.

“Didn’t you say that last night?”

“Might as well repeat it,” Owen shrugs. “It’s a brilliant achievement.”

“Hmm…”

Dylan’s previously unoccupied hand reaches across to settle on Owen’s him, firm in its placement. Owen hides his smirk by turning his lips back to Dylan’s chest; he knows what’s coming, can feel Dylan’s interest – and his own.

“I can think of a few more things we could repeat after last night…”

 

In the end, they do go for a walk. Owen brought Ronnie up with him on Friday evening, and the Hungarian Vizsla was more than happy to see Dylan, barking enthusiastically and stretching up in an attempt to lick Dylan’s face. Now, Ronnie dances ahead of them, every once in a while turning back to yap insistently at them. Undoubtedly, he’s getting very impatient with Owen and Dylan’s casual stroll, but neither man feels any particular need to increase the pace.

There’s a conversation to be had, after all.

“Ready to talk?” Dylan asks quietly, and Owen draws in a careful breath, chewing his lip lightly.

_No, not really._

He doesn’t want to talk about any of this, just wants to finish this walk in comfortable silence – aside from Ronnie’s excited barking – then return home and distract Dylan with other, easier things. Dylan won’t like that, though, which takes most of the fun out of it, and would almost certainly lead to another argument, which he doesn’t want. Which talking is meant to prevent.

“Yeah,” he sighs, reluctant. “If we have to.”

“We have to,” Dylan tells him firmly, reaching out to tangle their fingers together and squeeze just a little. “Unless you _want_ to keep arguing?”

“No,” Owen concedes, but he has to train his eyes on Ronnie to avoid having to meet Dylan’s gaze. “So… We don’t communicate enough, right?”

“We don’t,” Dylan agrees; the briefest of glances in his direction reveals a flicker of a half-smile before his face falls back into seriousness and Owen refocuses on Ronnie. “Let’s start with this whole Folau business, alright? You said less than an hour before that you’d tell me if he said anything. Either you were lying to me, or…”

“I meant it,” Owen mutters, the fingers of his free hand flexing and curling just a little in his discomfort. “I just… He… It wasn’t anything major – it wasn’t like I needed anyone to…”

He doesn’t need protection.

“Yeah, but it’s not about that,” Dylan tells him firmly. “It’s not about backing you up at the time – it’s about knowing if you’re upset about something, being aware of things that might’ve hurt you and being able to support you.”

“I’m fine,” Owen bites out stubbornly, although the words _still_ haven’t entirely left him.

“Well…” Dylan clearly sees right through him. “Even if I believed that, it doesn’t matter to me if you _are_ fine. I mean, it does, definitely, but that doesn’t change me wanting to know. I want to be able to make sure you’re fine.”

“But –”

“How many times did you ask about my concussion after the Six Nations?” Dylan’s eyebrows are raised pointedly when Owen risks another glance at him. “You didn’t care if the doctors were handling it, if I was handling it – and I knew a lot more about how to deal with it than you did, didn’t I? But that didn’t stop you from wanting to know. How would you have felt if I’d refused to tell you anything?”

In the interest of actually _having_ a conversation about all of this, Owen forces himself to consider it. _Rejected, probably. And useless. Definitely useless. And very, horribly worried – maybe even terrified about how bad it was, about what Dylan might be wanting to keep from him._

“That’s completely different,” he argues, and it is, isn’t it?

Dylan had a _concussion_. He was out of the game for _months_. Owen was slightly upset about something that was said to him – when he shouldn’t even have been, he was just being stupid – and it’s only been a few days. And he should be over it by now. And when he didn’t want to come out (because he’s pretty sure Dylan’s going to get onto that in a bit), that was just because there wasn’t a good time to bring it up.

“No, it’s not,” Dylan rolls his eyes, apparently disbelieving. “Owen, _how_ much mental health awareness work are you surrounded by on a daily basis?”

Owen’s skin prickles with discomfort and a little humiliation. Does Dylan think he’s…?

“I’m _not_ depressed!” he retorts hotly.

“I’m not saying you are,” Dylan tells him calmly – too calmly. “It doesn’t matter if you’ve got a disorder or anything. It’s not _about_ that. It’s about talking to your loved ones when something upsets you, because it’s much easier to deal with that way, and it’s going to put a lot less strain on your relationships – on _our_ relationship.”

Jaw setting, Owen looks away, hoping to find Ronnie doing something he shouldn’t be doing, something to distract him from this conversation, but there’s nothing, just another impatient bark.

“Look, take the last month,” Dylan tries – _here we go_. “You were getting stressed and worried, and that made you irritable, right? And you took that out on everyone. Especially me.”

“Look, I’m sorry, alright? I just –”

“I’m not asking you to be sorry,” Dylan bites out, frustration starting to colour his tone until he reigns it back in. “I’m asking you to _listen_. Imagine you’d told me from the start. Even if we hadn’t done anything about it, even if you were still feeling stressed… Maybe talking it out could’ve helped, and if I’d known why you kept going off on me, it would have been much easier on both of us.”

“But then _you_ ’d be stressed, and we were in the middle of preparing for the All Blacks,” Owen shoves his free hand into his pocket, chewing the inside of his cheek as he keeps his eyes glued on Ronnie; Dylan _has_ to see that it wasn’t the right time for it.

“Believe me, I was stressed anyway,” Dylan snorts. “You start acting all angry towards me and seem reluctant to even touch me half the time? Trust me, I was stressed.”

_Oh._ Owen can see how that might have come off wrong – and as much as Dylan apparently doesn’t want him to be sorry, he can’t help the guilt that rushes through him. He should’ve been able to keep it all to himself, should’ve dealt with it straight away and then been able to ignore it.

“And don’t even start with telling yourself that you should’ve just hidden it better,” Dylan sighs. “That’s not how it works.”

“But –”

“But _nothing_ , Owen!” Dylan’s voice rises in volume, shocking Owen a little as his partner tugs him to a halt. “Look at me, Faz. When something’s bothering you, you need to fucking _tell_ me, OK? And I’ll do the same. Otherwise, you’re just going to bottle it up and it won’t go away. And you’re strong, alright? Everyone knows it. You don’t need to prove it like this – and it won’t work. Bottling up emotions doesn’t make you strong.”

“No, needing someone else to deal with it for me just makes me…” Owen screws up his face, searching for a word that might be better received than ‘pathetic’.

“Normal,” Dylan fills in firmly. “And self-aware enough to know that you need help. Because you do need help, just like everyone else. Just like me. You should _know_ how important communication is – and how big an impact even the smallest psychological changes can have.”

Still unable to look at Dylan for more than a second, Owen tries to consider his partner’s words, but they just sound ridiculous. Yes, he’s heard it all before, but that doesn’t mean he’s ever actually _agreed_ with it. If other people want to go around admitting to everyone that they can’t handle their own lives, that’s up to them, but Owen doesn’t want to join in with the whole ‘just because it’s hard, it’s too difficult’ mentality.

“Oh, for fuck’s sake,” Dylan mutters. “How did we go a whole year without…? Alright, here’s a question I want you to answer honestly. I’m not attacking you, so don’t get defensive or anything, just – Do you _want_ this relationship to work?”

“What?” Owen stiffens despite himself, but forces himself not to get too prickly. “Of course I do.”

“Then you need to _tell_ me things,” Dylan grits out, and Owen almost thinks there’s a hint of anger in his eyes. “You also need to listen when I tell you things. Like I’ll listen when you tell me things. Communication, Owen. It’s key, yes?”

Owen doesn’t say anything; he doesn’t have anything to say. He just wants to move on from this. And stay with Dylan, obviously. But he doesn’t want to become a _fucking pussy_. 

“So, let’s start with this whole Folau thing. I’ll go first, alright?” Dylan takes a deep breath. “It’s bothering me that there’s a homophobic player who’s still allowed to represent his country, OK? You know, that young kids are going to think that what he’s saying is acceptable in society – and that maybe, enough people really _do_ think it’s acceptable. And that others will feel, you know, ‘if he can do _that_ …’ And I also worry about what he could say or do on the field. To me, or to you…”

Owen shifts awkwardly, well aware of Ronnie trotting back towards them to nuzzle at his legs. Yeah, he gets those problems, even if he doesn’t necessarily want to admit it.

“And then to find out that he _did_ say something to you, and that he got away with it… It feels a bit like I’ve failed, as your boyfriend, because not only could I not stop him, but I couldn’t even offer you support – which you apparently still don’t want. And it worries me, because what if he does it again? Or something else? And what also bothers me is that I don’t think you’re OK with it. That’s what concerns me the most, _because_ ,” Dylan raises his voice as Owen opens his mouth to protest, “I _care_ about you, and I don’t like it when people I care about get hurt. And to think that you’re not alright, and you don’t feel comfortable telling me, that both worries me, and also makes me feel like I’ve failed. Alright?”

Dylan’s a little flushed by the time he’s finished, and Owen can only stare at him, speechless. He doesn’t even know where to start processing that, how to deal with the emotions that Dylan has just unloaded onto him, and… Dylan feels like he’s failed? Of course he hasn’t failed – what would he have failed at?

Except, as much as Owen wants to deny it, he knows _exactly_ what Dylan means, can relate far more than he’d like – enough to start feeling guilty – and with a rush of exhaled air, he opens his mouth to finally admit:

“No, I guess I’m not OK with it.”

It’s… easier to say than he expected. Maybe because Dylan already knows, maybe because it _is_ Dylan he’s talking to, or maybe… Maybe because it feels a bit relieving to admit it, especially since Dylan isn’t rolling his eyes, is just nodding encouragingly.

“I…” he has to look away. “I just – It shouldn’t be bothering me, I’m meant to be _past_ caring about things like that, and maybe that bothers me itself, I don’t know, I just…”

He shrugs, biting down on his bottom lip, and Dylan squeezes his hand with a gentle smile.

“And I shouldn’t have let him say it in the first place,” Owen’s face is warming slowly, a mixture of embarrassment and anger flooding under the skin as he kicks aimlessly at the ground. “I was just… surprised, and I didn’t want to make a big deal out of it, I guess… I didn’t want anyone to know he’d actually _said_ something.”

Slowly, Dylan nods again. The lack of judgement helps to soothe a little of the building tension of having said so much, admitted to something which seems so trivial and stupid and _shouldn’t_ still be dragging him down.

“I’m proud of you,” his partner tells him quietly, and his cheeks burn hotter still. “Seriously, I’m not trying to patronise you. I mean it.”

“Yeah, well…” Owen shifts awkwardly.

“Just take the compliment,” Dylan’s sigh is exasperated but fond, but his expression falls back to seriousness within a matter of seconds. “You said you were meant to be ‘past caring’ about things like that…?”

“I…” Owen coughs, looking away, as he remembers very suddenly that he’s never told Dylan about how much he used to struggle with his sexuality, how much time he spent feeling ashamed of it; probably, he even pretended the opposite. “When I was younger, I worried a lot. About being gay, about what my parents would say and all that. It was stupid, I know, I just –”

“That’s not stupid.”

Owen rolls his eyes, because of course Dylan’s going to say that. He’s starting to get fed up of this dynamic in their relationship – no, he’s far past that stage. Dylan isn’t his fucking therapist.

“It’s not!” Dylan insists. “You _know_ it’s not – stop being an idiot. If you just think about it logically…”

Honestly, Owen hates that Dylan’s right. If it was as simple as that, he’d never even dream of agreeing. He just doesn’t want to fight anymore, though, so reluctantly, he shrugs to concede the point.

“At any rate,” he sucks in a breath, “I didn’t have anything to worry about, but… I spent a while feeling like it was wrong – like I was wrong, I guess – and… It just hit a bit close to home, is all.”

There. He’s said everything Dylan can ask for from him, hasn’t he? There’s nothing more he can think of that his partner might want – nothing more that Dylan might be worried about, surely? Ronnie’s paws settle over his toes, digging into his feet through his trainers, and he doesn’t have the heart to shove the dog away; they’ve kept Ronnie waiting for so long anyway.

“There’s nothing wrong with it,” Dylan’s reminder is soft, somehow still firm as he squeezes Owen’s fingers gently. “Israel Folau is a fucking cunt.”

Despite himself, Owen laughs quietly, the muscles in his cheeks relaxing ever so slightly.

“We should probably talk about some other things at some point today as well,” Dylan adds after a moment of peaceful quiet between the two of them. “But I think Ronnie’s getting a little impatient.”


	22. Chapter 22

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So... I'm actually putting up another chapter! You know what I think it is? I'm actually on top of all of my work at the moment, so I can't procrastinate that, and instead my need to procrastinate *something* is transferring to this. But I've done it. Now that I'm terrified of the fact that last night I agreed to go round a friend's today, and now I'm very much looking for an excuse not to go. Not that this provides one, but it's nice to pretend.
> 
> In other news, I'm seriously missing competing at the moment, which sucks. I might have to look at doing some sort of low-level competition - just do a few of my worse races for a laugh, and maybe chuck my favourites in if I'm feeling confident enough. At least I'm getting a fair amount of training by myself in, even if it's nowhere near enough to make up for all of the training sessions I'm missing.
> 
> And, of course, the homophobia seems set to continue, which is just great, and I'm sure we're all having a wonderful time watching it all play out, aren't we? Just fabulous. 
> 
> And then there's Game of Thrones... I mean, won't that woman die already? And no, I'm actually not talking about Cersei. I've just had a growing dislike for Daenerys for the last few seasons, and just... Barely any of my friends at Sixth Form or in my club are watching it either, so I can only rant to my family; there's only so many times I can tell them I don't like her.
> 
> But there we go. Not the longest chapter this time, and not the shortest, I don't think. It's not the most exciting - it's more a precursor to the next one, I guess. Just follows them through most of December. Hope you're all OK and having a good bank holiday weekend!

****

Hearing that his parents want to actually meet Dylan takes Owen somewhat off-guard. It’s not something he’s really thought about in the last month or so, not something he’s really considered and certainly not something he expected his mum to bring up over the phone with him, rather than him discussing it with Dylan and broaching the subject cautiously himself.

Blinking at the TV – playing NFL highlights – he tries to summon a response, and eventually comes up weakly with:

“But Dad’s already met him.”

His mum sighs, and he can almost hear the eye-roll within the rush of air. Yes, OK, he knows that’s a rather fallible reply, but he didn’t really have anything else. Maybe she shouldn’t have surprised him with it.

“Yes, but _I_ haven’t, and neither of us have met him as your boyfriend, have we?” she points out. “And you’ve been with him for more than a year, love. I think it’s time we met him properly. We can come over to visit you for Christmas, maybe – if he’s free to join us as well?”

“Er…”

Really, Owen doesn’t have any problem with Dylan meeting his parents. Dylan’s already met his dad, who’s hardly about to turn against Dylan just because he’s now with Owen, and his mum doesn’t really dislike people at all, so…

“I’ll ask him,” he agrees, but then, chewing his lip, has to add, “Will you be trying to get Elle and Gracie to come?”

Owen knows they’re mature enough not to say anything to Dylan’s face – and with any luck, when they meet him, he’ll grow on them quickly enough. All the same, he’d like to be able to message them well in advance, just in case. And probably pull them aside in person just to threaten them with retribution in case they do say anything even remotely insulting to Dylan.

“Of course,” his mum confirms, as he’d expected. “You’ll get back to us about what he says, then?”

“Yeah,” Owen sighs. “You coming over even if he’s not free?”

His mum huffs, amused.

“What, just to see you?” she teases. “Why would we want to do that?”

Owen doesn’t deem that worthy of a verbal reply, settling instead for a slightly frustrated groan as his mum laughs in his ear.

He does want Dylan to meet his family, he really does. In truth, there’s no reason to expect that anything would go wrong; they can all behave themselves well enough when they have to. It’s just… It’s a big step, a sign of huge commitment in Owen’s eyes. Only two of his previous boyfriends have ever met his parents, and one already knew them beforehand, the other being a chance meeting mere days before they split. Really, Owen isn’t sure, despite the conversation he had with Dylan last weekend – and the continuation of it when they got home, though he managed to cut _that_ short by going out to practice his kicking (which maybe he shouldn’t have done) – that he’s comfortable going back to such a purposeful level of commitment. Maybe he can’t help the more thoughtless actions and words, but this would be very much deliberate.

He’d have to ask Dylan. He’d have to make it clear that he wants this, that he sees their relationship as being secure enough to do this.

Unfortunately, there’s no real way to explain to his parents that he doesn’t want to ask Dylan. He certainly doesn’t want to explain to them what happened last month – and definitely not what Dylan said to him about them. He doesn’t really have a choice in the matter, but maybe that makes it easier, because he really does want to do this at some point; his long-term partner being able to foster a good relationship with his family is definitely somewhere on his list of priorities.

The first thing he does when they finally say their goodbyes is call Dylan, waiting slightly anxiously for his boyfriend to pick up. For all he knows, Dylan might not want to meet his parents properly – or meet his mum, at least – or he might have other plans, might not want to spend Christmas with Owen, and then Owen will look like an even bigger fool, just throwing himself out there to get rejected…

“Hey, Faz,” Dylan’s voice is warm, smile audible just as it always is when he answers the phone. “Didn’t expect you to be calling right now.”

Owen checks the time, realising with a faint flush that there’s a good chance Dylan is training right now. This is Saracens’ day off – though he’s planning a kicking session later in the day – and he forgot that Dylan wouldn’t necessarily be similarly free. Really, as much as he doesn’t want to admit it, it’s a sign of how preoccupied he is with the idea of Dylan meeting his family.

“What are your plans for Christmas?” he blurts out, and it’s a testament to how accustomed Dylan has become to his utter inability to approach things that are bothering him in a _normal_ way that the older man doesn’t even react to the non-sequitur.

“Not much, yet,” Dylan admits. “That does remind me, though… My parents are coming over for a few weeks afterwards. I was wondering if you’d like to meet them?”

_Well, that’s something of a coincidence._

“Um…” he relaxes, glad not to be the only one suggesting something like this. “Yeah, that’d be… I could do that. Listen, I was just talking to my mum, and she actually said she wants to meet you…? And Dad wants to meet you ‘properly’, whatever that means. We’ve just agreed that they’ll be coming over to mine for Christmas – looks like most of my family will be invading, actually, and I was wondering if you’d like to, um, come down and…?”

There. Maybe something in that wording doesn’t make it seem like he really wants it to happen as well. If only his voice would back him up and drop the hopeful note.

But fuck, he can’t even string a full sentence together right now. With any luck, Dylan won’t have noticed, won’t realise exactly how nervous he still is about this, but… Yeah, Dylan’s probably picked up on it on some level. Annoyingly, his boyfriend has become very good at reading his emotions through the phone, even if he doesn’t always comment on them.

And that means there’ll be _another_ talk about Owen needing to express about how he’s feeling, and yes, maybe it helped last weekend, but that really doesn’t mean he enjoyed it.

Dylan hasn’t replied yet, and logically, Owen knows that he’s just thinking, trying to work out if it’s possible, but what if he’s going to say no? What if he can’t – or he doesn’t want to?

“I meet your family, you meet mine?” Dylan laughs softly. “Alright. I’ll find out what time I’ve got off and come over for as long as I can. You get yourself up here around New Year’s, yeah?”

Relief flooding his system, Owen doesn’t bother trying to repress his smile. There’s no one here to see it, anyway.

 

“So, Faz,” Jamie starts at the end of training, slinging an arm over his shoulder, and Owen has to raise an eyebrow, wondering what his teammate has in mind now.

In the middle of their two games against Cardiff Blues, he can’t think of anything particular that would bring such a glint to Jamie’s eyes, can’t remember anything he might have done or that might be coming up, and it’s making him more than a little paranoid as he tries to work out what his friend’s plan is.

“The lads have been thinking,” Jamie continues, and someone coughs. “Alright, _we_ ’ve been thinking –”

“Jinx, this was entirely you, so don’t go dragging us into it,” Richard rolls his eyes as he wanders past to talk to Brad.

“Fine, _I_ ’ve been thinking,” Jamie amends with a vicious glare at the Scrum-half’s back (if looks could kill…), “Now that you’re starting to, you know, come out a bit… You really don’t have any excuse not to go to London Pride with us next year.”

Owen stares at him, incredulous. _This_ is what Jamie wants to talk to him about? In December? Uncertain, he glances around, finding himself unsure what to make of the fact that everyone is studiously not looking at them, conversations suddenly a little more subdued than they were a moment ago.

“That’s in _summer_.”

“All the more time to prepare!” Jamie insists. “You could bring Dylan along – we could make a team bonding thing out of it –”

“No,” Owen shrugs Jamie’s arm away – not aggressively, but with enough force to get himself some much-needed personal space. “Pride isn’t a ‘team bonding’ activity.”

“OK, fine, it’s not,” Jamie concedes. “But we _do_ want to show our support for you. At least I do. Apparently these fuckers –”

“Just because we’re not jumping on Faz’s back about going to Pride doesn’t mean we don’t want to show our support for him!” Maro protests, shoving Jamie lightly, then turns to fix Owen with a serious stare. “If you ever need to talk to us about anything…”

Owen looks between the two of them, taking in their earnestly concerned expressions, and narrows his eyes.

“What’s brought this on?” he asks suspiciously – and yes, everyone is definitely trying to make it seem like they’re not paying attention.

“What?” Jamie looks around, eyes widening in the most obvious show of guilt that Owen has ever seen from the man in his life, and Maro shrugs, far too innocent for him to be anything of the sort. “What’s that supposed to mean? We just want to support a friend.”

“But if you ever want a bit of support,” Maro presses, “We’re here. If anyone says anything to you, you don’t need to stay quiet.”

 _Not this again…_ Owen’s only just got Dylan to shut up about talking to people – he’s going to _try_ , alright? – and now his teammates are at it, are they? Not just a few of them, at that: the whole team looks to be in on this.

“Seriously, why are you on about this now?” he demands, folding his arms and fighting back the faint flush that warms his cheeks with the realisation that this conversation, of all things, is very much the centre of everyone’s undivided attention. “What’s happened?”

He doesn’t like the look that Maro and Jamie share in the slightest.

“There’s just… a rumour going around,” Jamie admits finally. “That Folau said something to you. We just thought we should make sure, you know… That you know you’re accepted here.”

Swallowing, Owen nods. So now it’s making rounds in the Premiership, is it? Great. Fucking… fabulous.

And now even his internal complaining sounds like he’s a drag queen on gay steroids.

Which is totally a thing.

(Really, he’s just trying not to think about the fact that soon, all of his opponents are going to know that Folau said something homophobic to him, and worse, they’re going to know that he didn’t do anything about it. There’s a reason why he didn’t tell anyone, and it’s not because the words didn’t bother him – because they really, truly did. He just… didn’t want anyone to know. And now they all do. Fuck.)

“I’m fine,” he shrugs. “Dylan’s already gone off on me about talking to people.”

“Has he?” Jamie’s face lights up immediately. “Mate, that reminds me – we still need to meet him. As a team. You should bring him over at some point, introduce him properly.”

Owen levels him with the flattest stare he can possibly muster, silently relieved that they’ve moved on from that topic of conversation so easily. They want to meet Dylan, huh?

“And why the fuck would I do that?”

“We need to _approve_ of him,” Jamie’s eyes practically gleam with wickedness. “Lads, who thinks Faz should bring Hartley round here at some point?”

The resounding cheer that meets Jamie’s words has Owen groaning under his breath. _Looks like Dylan will be facing the cavalry over Christmas as well._

He should probably at least give Dylan a warning. But maybe it’d be funny to see his face. But it’d be cruel to surprise him with this lot, of all things… But it’d be very, incredibly funny to watch…

And Owen needs something to cheer him up right now.

 

Dylan, unsurprisingly, is not the least bit impressed to find out that Owen’s agreed to introduce him to Saracens properly – especially when Owen only admits to it the day before Dylan comes down, over video call; it’s not like Dylan can stay long, so chances are, it’ll be tomorrow – and if not, it’ll have to be the next day.

“You’re a fucking dick, you know that?” Dylan groans, scrubbing a hand over his eyes while Owen tries not to laugh too hard. “You’re actually… I can’t believe you. I really can’t believe you.”

“It’ll be fun,” Owen chokes out, struggling to keep his laughter from his parents’ ears as Dylan drops his head repeatedly onto the desk that he’s sitting at. “Practice for my family?”

“Added torture,” Dylan corrects him. “Owen, I love you, but _Saracens_ … You know, if there’s one thing I could _really_ do without at Christmas time, it’s your club.”

Owen’s secure enough in his relationship with Dylan that, he’s proud to say, he doesn’t feel the slightest bit offended by Dylan’s clear distaste. Everyone hates Saracens, and Owen’s long ago found a love for that hatred. Maybe, earlier in this, he wanted Dylan to love Sarries as much as he does, but right now, it’s really too amusing for him to care.

“They’re a good group of boys,” he reasons.

“They’re going to _murder_ me.”

“They’re friendly,” Owen’s just about squashed his laughter into a mischievous grin, but the stare that Dylan fixes him with has him cracking up all over again, cheeks flushing with his need to breathe.

“Friendly, my arse…”

“It’ll be fine,” Owen says firmly when he’s regained enough of his control to speak, and Dylan merely sighs, obviously disbelieving. “I’ve already met Saints, remember? And you _do_ know a fair few of them.”

“Yes, and it’s bad enough when there’s six of you or however many with England. I can’t even _begin_ to imagine what the whole lot is like.”

Shrugging, Owen glances around to make sure that none of his siblings – especially not Gabe – are about to come in.

“It won’t be _all_ of them – I can’t fit that many in my house, especially not with family round,” he points out, then lowers his voice, leaning in a little closer so that his laptop will still pick him up. “And I’ll make it up to you.”

Dylan’s eyebrows shoot upwards.

“Your family’s going to be there.”

“I can be quiet,” Owen sits back as he lifts one shoulder, raising a challenging eyebrow of his own. “If you can.”

The expression on Dylan’s face tells him, even before his boyfriend verbally concedes, that he’s won. Now he only has to run his own damage control, warn his teammates against scaring Dylan away, finish getting ingredients for Christmas dinner, work out _how the fuck_ he’s actually going to fit everyone in – because he may have a theoretical plan, but that never works – and learn how to stay quiet during sex very, _very_ quickly.

Despite what he said, he’s not particularly good at it, and unfortunately, Dylan’s very much aware of that. Owen doesn’t really like the grin now growing on his boyfriend’s face. At all.


	23. Chapter 23

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Aaand we are back! With another chapter! A big one - certainly, in terms of happenings, an compared to the rest of this, in length as well. As you might be ale to tell, I am very excited - because not only did I get to actually *watch* Sarries play yesterday (thank you, Channel 4, you have my deepest and sincerest gratitude), I got to watch them WIN, and I am very much still buzzing from that. And I managed to persuade my parents to let me go to London by myself to watch their home semi this week, so... Good times. Very, very good times. (But please, don't let Mako or Billy be injured. Please...)
> 
> Anyway, as I said, big chapter. A lot of developments, and a very short space of time. Very excited, kind of nervous - who am I kidding, insanely nervous - and... yeah. Not sure what else there is to say.

Owen isn’t actually sure who’s more nervous. Maybe – probably – it should be Dylan, but…

Ever since he woke up this morning, anticipation has been fizzing with worry in his gut, his mental state in utter turmoil as he tries to plan for everything that could possibly go wrong and prevent all of it at once, and as much as he wishes he could pretend it’s just cooking Christmas Dinner tomorrow that he’s anxious about, he hasn’t fooled anyone. He’s had knowing looks from both his parents, and even a small giggle from Elleshia when his knee wouldn’t stop bouncing – even with a seven-year-old apparently determined to climb onto his lap – while he waited for a text from Dylan to inform him of his boyfriend’s imminent arrival at the station.

Now, waiting at a traffic light, his fingers drum incessantly on the wheel, his leg jogging once more as he sneaks glances in Dylan’s direction, always met with the same sight: white knuckles, a tight jawline, and rigid forearms as Dylan clutches his phone in his lap and stares directly ahead. They’re not ready for this – neither of them is. As much as Owen knows that his parents _should_ be fine, that doesn’t mean they will be, doesn’t mean he’s about to stop panicking over every possibility.

That’s not even starting on his siblings. The more he thinks about it, the more he becomes convinced that maybe his sisters don’t have the tact to remain quiet about what they might think of Dylan. Owen isn’t sure _he_ would, if it was him meeting one of their partners and he was prejudiced against them from the start. At the very least, he’d make life unpleasant for them.

And even if Elleshia and Gracie have some level of discretion, Gabriel certainly isn’t about to hold back if _he_ doesn’t like Dylan. A polite kid Owen’s brother might be, but a kid he is, all the same.

After what feels like an eternity, the light turns green. Owen almost wishes it had stayed red; then, he’d have an excuse not to take Dylan home right now. Maybe if they could get stuck in traffic for two full days…? Then they could just turn around and head up to Northampton… so that Owen could make a fool out of himself in front of Dylan’s parents instead.

_Fuck_.

What if Dylan doesn’t like his siblings? Or his mum? What if Dylan only pretended to like his dad so that he wouldn’t get kicked out of the squad? What if they put him off? Owen doesn’t think he knows what he’d do if Dylan doesn’t like his family; it almost feels like he should be bringing them to meet his boyfriend, not the other way around.

“Owen, I swear,” Dylan starts when they pull up at another red light, voice tight, “If your leg starts going again, I’m not above cutting it off right now.”

Blowing out a shaky breath, Owen scrubs a hand over his eyes and grimaces.

“Sorry,” he mutters. “I’m just… nervous.”

Dylan nods, but doesn’t reply, letting quiet settle back in – and that’s how it stays until Owen finally pulls into his driveway, careful to avoid his parents’ and sisters’ cars (the only reason that Dylan didn’t drive himself, actually: there wouldn’t have been room). The engine cut off, they sit in silence for a moment longer, then Dylan exhales while Owen sucks in a sharp breath. Glancing at one another, their gazes lock, and Dylan looks away with a snort as Owen laughs quietly.

“It’ll be fine,” he announces, both for his own sake and Dylan’s.

“Better than Saracens, at any rate,” Dylan huffs, and Owen has to roll his eyes, even as he unbuckles his seatbelt and opens the car door.

Mere seconds after he’s stepped out and shut the door behind himself, a small body slams into him, sending him staggering back with a muffled grunt – really, a stifled swear word – as Gabe grins mischievously up at him.

“I’ve been gone fifteen minutes,” he tells his brother, unable to help his own smile. “You missed me, mate?”

Gabe, of course, merely shakes his head.

“I’m practising my tackling,” he declares, obviously pleased with himself for knocking Owen back into the car – Owen was just _surprised_ , alright? “Where’s your boyfriend?”

Owen looks around, spotting Dylan on the other side of the bonnet after a moment and beckoning him over.

“Gabe, this is Dylan,” he introduces, nudging the suddenly shy boy gently in Dylan’s direction. “Dyl, this is Gabriel, my brother and a proper nuisance.”

“Alright, Gabe?” Dylan holds out his hand, which Gabe takes cautiously, and offers a smile; that, too, is slowly reciprocated. “Good to meet you. Owen says much nicer things about you when you’re not around, don’t worry.”

Owen huffs in mock-denial, but doesn’t make any attempt to hide the fondness in his expression as Gabe twists to narrow his eyes smugly, simply reaching out to ruffle Gabe’s hair, to a small yelp as hands bat at him.

“I should introduce you to Mum,” he tells Dylan over Gabe’s head. “She’ll start to get impatient, soon.”

“She already is,” his dad announces from the doorway, and Gabe goes bouncing back towards the house, offering their father a quick hug before disappearing inside. “Good to see you again, Dylan.”

Owen watches the handshake carefully, looks for any sign that his dad might not be completely sincere, and relaxes only when he’s certain that his dad’s open smile is exactly what it seems.

“Good to see you too,” Dylan returns. “Congratulations on the win against the All Blacks.”

And if that isn’t a sure-fire way to get his dad smiling, Owen doesn’t know what is.

“Come on,” his dad jerks his head inside. “I’ll introduce you to Colleen. Owen can bring your things in – can’t you, mate?”

Owen barely resists the urge to lift his middle finger in response, instead simply narrowing his eyes in a vicious glare. Dylan, he notes, looks a little alarmed to be dragged away so soon, but the amusement at Owen’s reaction must win out, because the last Owen sees of him is a grin before his dad arches a daring eyebrow and shuts the door. _For fuck’s sake…_

When Dylan’s belongings are safely upstairs on their – well, Owen’s, but it’ll always be _theirs_ , really – bed, Owen finally risks a glance into the living room to see how Dylan’s getting on with his mum. To his relief, both are smiling, Gabe perched happily enough next to Dylan on the couch, and he can only relax, letting out a small breath that he hadn’t realised he was holding.

“Alright?” his dad asks behind him, the words, coupled with the hand that lands on his shoulder, making him jump.

“Yeah,” he manages when his heartrate has slowed, turning to offer a smile.

His dad’s eyes almost seem to sparkle a little as he looks Owen over, and Owen can only stand, waiting for whatever his dad has to say and unsure what to make of the expression on his dad’s face; he almost seems proud, but of what, Owen has no idea.

“You know,” his dad steps away from the living room finally, pulling Owen with him, “Your mum and me… We used to worry – that you’d never really be comfortable enough with who you are to settle down. It’s nice to see you happy with someone.”

Owen doesn’t really have a response to that, so he settles for a nod and a press of his lips, glancing back towards the living room once more before letting his dad lead him through to the dining room instead. What is there to say to that? He doesn’t think he ever realised that his parents paid so much attention to his love-life.

“What’s it like, trying to fit the Co-Captaincy around it, then?” his dad asks him when they’re both seated at the table, and for a moment, he can only shrug.

“Well…” he struggles for an answer. “We try to make rugby the main priority, really. So… It’s more fitting it around the Co-Captaincy. I guess it’s not a big deal.”

“Really?” his dad’s eyebrows rise. “Interesting.”

Owen isn’t sure he wants to know what _that_ is supposed to mean.

“So, rugby comes first, is that it?” his dad continues, and he gets the feeling that he isn’t really going to like where this is going, but he nods anyway. “And you’ve been together, what? Thirteen months?”

“Thereabouts,” Owen confirms, shifting awkwardly.

“And you’re telling me you’ve spent thirteen months trying to have a serious relationship with someone without ever putting them before your career?”

Well… Maybe…?

“I mean…” Owen fidgets again, wishing that he could just say ‘yes’, that he didn’t have to admit that he couldn’t always keep everything so clear cut. “We try to keep it that way.”

To his surprise, his dad rolls his eyes.

“Owen, you know not _everything_ has to be about rugby, right?”

“I –” Owen blinks, not having expected that from his dad, of all people, then manages weakly, “Yeah…”

He doesn’t sound convinced, he knows; he doesn’t feel it, either. It’s rugby: his career; his sport; his hobby, if it could ever be considered as trivial as that (it couldn’t).

“Owen,” his dad fixes him with a suddenly serious gaze, and with an internal sigh, he resettles himself. “At some point, you know you have to accept putting him above rugby if you want this relationship to work, don’t you?”

Uncomfortable, Owen stares at the table instead of meeting his dad’s eyes as he tries to formulate a response. Well, in theory, _probably_ , but there’s got to be a way to work it. He can find a way to make sure that they don’t interfere, can’t he? He’s done well at that for the season so far.

“Which would you say comes first, rugby or family?”

“Family,” Owen responds without hesitation, because that’s just obvious, but he doesn’t see what it has to do with this conversation; Dylan isn’t…

“If everything works out for you two, he’ll be family eventually.”

Owen can’t think of anything to say. Non-plussed, he can only blink at his dad as the words sink slowly in, trying to process the almost non-sensical idea. Dylan as family just isn’t…

Dylan is _Dylan_.

“Oh, come on,” his dad groans, apparently slightly incredulous. “It must have _occurred_ to you.”

“I mean…” Owen trails off, searching for something to say as his fingers twist awkwardly.

He can’t really imagine including Dylan in the same bracket as his parents or his siblings. The thought is… strange – disturbing, even. Maybe because he’s looking at it the wrong way; really, he doubts his dad means family like _that_ , but anything else is unfathomable. The only reference point he has for that is Dylan himself.

Dylan, who he wants to approve of his family almost as much as he wants his family to approve of Dylan.

_Oh, fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuck…_

Without a word of explanation to his dad, Owen drops his head back with a moan of frustration and despair, lifting his hand to scrub at his eyes. He’s meant to be keeping his distance from Dylan – just a bit – meant to be holding back so that he doesn’t get hurt, so that it doesn’t end badly, or it won’t feel so awful if it does.

“Owen?” his dad asks, apparently concerned, and he manages only another wordless noise. “Come on, it’s not that bad…”

How many times has Owen struggled to reconcile choosing between rugby and Dylan? How relieved was he not to play against Dylan earlier in the year, even over the desperation to be playing and the faint concern – ever-present when a muscle strain occurs – that it might turn out to be something worse? He’s even let Dylan talk to him about opening up – even _listened_.

How the _fuck_ has he not noticed this?

“Owen?”

A familiar grip falls to his shoulder, and he drops his hand, opening his eyes to meet his boyfriend’s concerned but amused stare.

“You alright?”

Taking a deep breath, Owen lets their gazes locked for a second before straightening in his seat, grateful for the excuse to put a stop to the conversation he’s been having with his dad.

“Fine,” he assures, receiving a gentle squeeze to the shoulder in return. “Mum isn’t scaring you off, is she?”

“Nah, she’s great,” Dylan smiles in the corner of his vision, sinking into the chair next to Owen and readjusting his hand to slide his arm around Owen instead. “Just wondered where you’d disappeared to.”

Owen lets himself be drawn in, accepting the kiss to the side of his head then turning to connect their lips, and it’s all too easy to sink into Dylan’s warmth, just like it has been since almost the beginning.

“Well, you’ve found me,” he smiles faintly, drawing back and trying to ignore the fond interest in his dad’s watchful eyes. “You met my sisters, yet?”

_Please, please, don’t let them have said anything. Don’t let them have…_

“Briefly,” Dylan nods. “We haven’t really spoken much.”

Hopeful as Owen is that his relief will go unnoticed, he knows it’s wishful thinking; indeed, Dylan’s eyes narrow a little, but fortunately, his boyfriend refrains from asking.

“You know, I’ve been thinking, Dylan,” Owen’s dad interrupts their quiet exchange with a pleasant smile of his own, and Dylan turns to him immediately, though his arm stays around Owen’s shoulders, fingers tracing circles on Owen’s upper arm while Owen settles a hand of his own on Dylan’s leg. “You’re only, what? Ten years younger than me?”

By Dylan’s discomforted shift and momentary twist in expression, Owen can tell that the older man dislikes that thought. A lot. Yeah, maybe hearing from your boyfriend’s father that you’re only a decade younger than him isn’t the best thing ever.

“Dad, stop messing with him,” he tells his father sharply when the silence stretches on in the absence of a response from Dylan, relaxing only when his dad stops staring intently at Dylan to grin and shake his head.

“I’m just messing with you,” comes the calm assurance, and Dylan nods jerkily, but doesn’t seem particularly comforted to hear it.

 

“Ten years,” Dylan murmurs ruefully when they’re finally alone, under the guise of Owen helping Dylan to unpack – Dylan’s only staying two nights, so really, there’s not enough for him to bother unpacking in the first place, and he’s got enough things at Owen’s that he probably won’t need half of what he’s brought – and Owen suspects that they haven’t fooled anyone, though it was nice to pretend at the time. “I can’t believe…”

“Calm down,” Owen rolls his eyes, slipping his arms around Dylan’s waist and setting his chin on his boyfriend’s shoulder, eyes closing automatically. “It’s not _that_ bad…”

“Yeah, well, you wouldn’t know!” Dylan huffs. “ _Ten years_ , Owen.”

Owen decides against entertaining this mild crisis that Dylan seems to be having, opting instead to draw slightly away for a kiss. Dylan relaxes into the contact in seconds, settling his hands on Owen’s hips to bring their bodies together. It’s not rushed, not desperate: just comfortable, familiar. It scares Owen how much it feels like home.

But maybe – just maybe – it doesn’t matter. Really, underneath everything, he trusts Dylan – trusts him not to let this go, not to let Owen let this go. Certainly, with Dylan’s chapped lips brushing lightly against his, it’s easy to push the concern aside.

“I wish you could stay,” he admits when they part, and though he didn’t mean to say it, the apprehension that lights in his chest on realising what he’s let slip is washed away in the face of Dylan’s fond smile.

“One day,” his boyfriend tells him, to his surprise, leaning back in. “Maybe when I’m retired.”

Their lips meet once more, and _fuck_ , if that doesn’t sound good…

 

Two hours later, Dylan’s singing something of a different tune. It’s been a quiet day so far, just relaxing at home with Owen’s family and watching kids’ TV programmes – at least, sitting in the same room as Gabriel watches them and occasionally getting distracted. Now, however, the doorbell has just rung, and that can only mean one thing.

“I hate you,” the older man mutters, folding his arms, and Owen grins just a little maliciously as he stands to answer the door.

“I love you too,” he throws over his shoulder as he leaves the room, satisfaction only growing when he finds Jamie and Alex’s Goode and Lozowski on his doorstep. “Come in, lads…”

Stepping aside, he waves them in, then spots Mako and Billy wandering up the street towards the house and feels his grin widen all the more. Looks like this is an ambush on their part, then.

“Drinks?” he offers when all five of them are in, the door closed to shut out the cold air. “Coffee, tea, beer?”

They follow him through to the kitchen, apparently kind enough not to descend on Dylan without Owen there to mediate, and Owen sets about putting the kettle on before he joins in the quiet chat.

“Gabe’s in the house, so limit the language, yeah?” he reminds them after a few minutes, happy to get a few nods before Jamie, apparently now reminded of who else is in the house, reaches out to settle a hand around his shoulders and beam at him.

“You going to introduce us to the boyfriend properly, then?” he wheedles. “None of this, ‘you know each other already…’ We want a proper introduction.”

“Before you go ahead and tear him a new one just for being a Saints player?” Owen asks, quietly amused.

“Of course,” Billy knocks his shoulder lightly. “Not that we’re saying you don’t do that well enough. We’d just like to give you a bit of assistance.”

“Alright,” he hands them their drinks. “C’mon. He’s through in the living room with Gabe – Mum, Dad, Grace and Elle are out.”

Leading his teammates through, Owen’s surprised to find Dylan sitting with Gabe on his lap, the boy apparently happy to stay there despite what Owen’s been hearing from his mum about Gabe’s growing insistence that sitting on adults’ laps is ‘for babies’ – and while Gabe _has_ sat in his lap once or twice since they all arrived, it’s been far less often than usual, and Owen’s pretty sure that he doesn’t entirely count as an adult in his little brother’s books.

Raising a questioning eyebrow, he watches Dylan shrug.

“He’s my protector,” his boyfriend offers by way of explanation, and Owen has to laugh.

“From this lot?” he gestures behind him, still somewhat distracted by how comfortable his little brother looks, perched on Dylan’s knee. “Aw, Dyl…”

“Come on, Faz,” Jamie shoves him lightly. “Stop flirting and introduce us. _Properly_.”

Rolling his eyes, Owen steps to the side. He can’t help but feel that _this_ is a little ridiculous; they all know Dylan already, so _come on_ , _lads_ … If that’s what they want, though, who’s Owen to say no?

“Loz, I’ve already given you a formal introduction,” he waves the Centre away. “Lads, this is my boyfriend, Dylan. You might’ve met him a few times when you’ve played against him… And you might just recognise him as your current England Captain… Dyl, these are some unimportant lads from Sarries who you’ve probably never heard of.”

Sarcasm drips from every syllable, Owen’s gaze caught on the crinkles beside Dylan’s eyes – a sign of his suppressed laughter – and the arm that wraps loosely around his little brother, casually protective in case Gabriel slips and falls. He doesn’t really know how to react to this image, isn’t sure why it’s even distracting him so much in the first place.

“Good to meet you,” Dylan offers, apparently willing to play along with the little game that Owen’s teammates have started (and clearly delighted at the scowl that Jamie shot at Owen on ‘unimportant’). “You have my condolences.”

That throws the lads a little bit. Owen takes the opportunity to drop back into his seat next to Dylan, his boyfriend’s free arm coming up to rest on his shoulders once more.

“Why’s that?” Jamie frowns.

The feigned look of confusion tells Owen that whatever Dylan’s about to say, it’s probably something his boyfriend’s been cooking up for the last minute at least.

“I thought Owen said you play for Saracens…?”

The laugh that escapes from Jamie’s still-parted lips is incredulous, the younger Hooker shaking his head even as he lowers himself into an armchair. Owen, long-since used to Dylan’s dry humour, merely smiles to himself, ducking his head so that his teammates can’t see it.

“Alright, Hartley. It’s on.”

Owen waits while his teammates settle into various seats, wondering if maybe, for all Dylan’s been complaining about Saracens mauling him, it might actually end with Dylan on top. Internally, he makes the executive decision to stay out of this and let them have their banter.

At least they _do_ like each other, when they’re not pretending to hate one another’s club.

Luckily, within fifteen minutes, they’ve given up all pretence of animosity, laughter flowing easily through the room – maybe helped a little by the drink – and Owen is relieved to be able to turn his attention entirely away, back to his ongoing fixation with the easy manner in which Dylan is handling his younger brother. Gabriel seems more than happy to stay perched on Dylan’s knee, and Dylan is somehow managing to hold a conversation with both five other rugby players and a seven-year-old.

Shit, this should not be doing the things to Owen that it is, but…

Dylan just looks so comfortable, completely at ease, and as Owen stares blankly at the hand that has just ruffled his little brother’s hair while his teammates chuckle at a racy comment just subtle enough to go entirely unnoticed by Gabe, he can’t help the thought, _Dylan would make a great dad._

Immediately, he stops that line of thinking in its tracks. Sure, he can deal with realising that Dylan means even more to him than he’d known, but this – _this_ is too far, and definitely too soon. Yes, Owen likes kids, but that’s all. He doesn’t want them, and certainly not with Dylan. _Not anytime soon, anyway._

Not for several years, and who even knows if they’ll last that long? (Fuck, he hopes they do.)

 

That evening, Owen paces in his bedroom while Dylan finally talks to his sisters properly downstairs. He doesn’t understand why he’s having all these realisations _now_ , why everything seems to be slotting together, and as much as he doesn’t want to complain, just wants to accept it all as it comes, he can’t help but feel suspicious, can’t stop the worry that he’s losing control – and yes, it’s Dylan, and maybe losing control isn’t a bad thing, but it just feels like too much, and far too quickly. In the space of a day, he’s gone from seeing Dylan as his boyfriend, who he needs to keep just far enough away to protect himself – to protect both of them, really – to… _this_ : to recognising that Dylan means so much more to him than he thinks he was really ready to admit, to acknowledging _aloud_ that he wants to live with Dylan, to realising that he wants children with Dylan…

It’s too much. It’s far too much.

Really, it has to be something to do with introducing Dylan to his family. It’s a big step, and he knew that before, but now, having done it, having seen Dylan fit into place among the rest of Owen’s loved ones so seamlessly, it just hit him so obviously and yet so subtly at the same time. And now, there’s no way back.

“Owen?”

Dylan’s voice, quiet and concerned, makes him jump; he’s been pacing for longer than he realised, fidgeting anxiously with various items strewn around the bedroom, and he isn’t sure he even wants to know how long Dylan’s been stood watching him.

“You alright?” his boyfriend steps closer, arms snaking around him to draw him gently into the warmth of Dylan’s body.

“Yeah,” he blows out a breath, wondering how much more of a jump it is to be honest about this after everything else that’s happened today – to finally do what Dylan’s been asking of him and actually admit to his feelings.

“Your sisters were fine, if that’s what you were worried about,” Dylan offers softly. “You looked a bit tense when you asked about them earlier.”

Really, how much does it cost to tell the truth about this? Dylan won’t leave him over it; they’re secure enough in their relationship now that pushing out the boat a bit like this wouldn’t end it. At the end of the day, lying might be the ‘safer’ option, but Owen doesn’t play rugby because he wants to be safe.

“No, it’s not that,” he starts carefully, pulling back just a little to meet Dylan’s eyes. “I was… thinking about us.”

Immediately, Dylan’s brow creases with worry.

“Nothing bad!” Owen hastens to assure him, even as he steels his resolve and commits himself to what he’s about to do. “I don’t think so, anyway. I just… I’ve been thinking… Dad said something earlier, and it made me realise a few things, and then seeing you with Gabe when the lads came over, I, um –”

“Deep breaths,” Dylan interrupts him with a fond smile. “Slow it down, love.”

Sucking in a shaky lungful of air, Owen nods. _Calm it, Farrell._

“One day – not now, maybe in several years –” even that commitment is both terrifying and utterly exhilarating, “I think I’d like to start a family. With you.”

Dylan’s expression softens instantly, gaze flitting over Owen’s face, which Owen hopes betrays his earnestness. Slowly, the arms around Owen cinch tighter, pulling him back in, and Dylan tilts his head to kiss Owen smoothly. Owen can only melt into the embrace, the sensation, lifting his own hands to grip Dylan’s back. His boyfriend is warm, solid, the muscles under his fingertips familiarly defined, and for many more seconds than Owen really cares to count, his words go verbally unanswered, lost in the growing heat and passion.

“That,” Dylan answers when they finally break apart to regain their breath, “Is an excellent idea. I – Wow. You really do know how to come out with the big things, don’t you?”

Flushing, Owen ducks his head to hide his pleased grin. Of course Dylan would take it well. Why wouldn’t he? After all, he’s normally the one to talk about their relationship in the future tense; really, it was just time that Owen took his turn at being the optimistic one.

And he is optimistic. There’s something about seeing the easy interactions between his family and his boyfriend, all of them meshing comfortably together within the space of one day, that has relaxed him, given him a hint of hope that this could work, that there’s a future for them together – in the long run. Yes, he’s always _wanted_ that, but… It’s realistic, now – and certainly, it’s worth it. Owen’s always been a risk-taker, at any rate.

“Come here…”

Dylan tilts his head up, kissing him fiercely, and he’ll later deny his small noise of surprise, but Dylan’s chest merely rumbles with laughter before hands guide him backwards towards the bed. Owen lets himself be nudged down onto the mattress, shifting backwards so that Dylan can climb on after him and settle between his legs, then tugs his boyfriend back down by a hand on the back of Dylan’s neck. Already, he can feel Dylan’s growing interest, and it’s perfectly easy to sink back into the bed – until Dylan sits up.

“If I were you, I’d have a shower now,” Dylan tells him, grinning just a little. “If you want one this evening.”

Owen frowns, more than a little confused, and tilts his head. Why has Dylan stopped now?

“What about you?” he settles for asking.

“I’ve already had one,” Dylan gestures to his hair, which is, indeed, slightly damp, and then his smile widens as he takes in Owen’s remaining confusion. “And I don’t plan on giving you another chance tonight. You were going to make it up to me, remember?”

Owen’s off the mattress and heading for the bathroom like a shot, Dylan’s amusement ringing in his ears. He’s normally pretty quick in the shower – when he’s not singing – but maybe he can find a way to cut that time down a little more…?


	24. Chapter 24

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, then... Last league game of the season, one week until I go to watch my first Sarries game, Manu T's birthday, Manu V's first Prem start, one of rugby union's first days free of Israel Folau since whenever his career started, last Saturday before the end of GoT... and Alex Goode is no longer on the piss. (Yes, well done, we're all proud, Alex. Just wash the kit, please.)
> 
> Oh, and this. Chapter 24. Of 24. Tear-jerker, that one, I know. Enjoy!

Lights flash past smear-streaked windows, glares stabbing through Owen’s half-lidded gaze to blind him for fractions of seconds before darkness falls once more. Rattling wheels blur with soft murmurings and the occasional automated announcement, Dylan’s arm solid and warm around him as his head is constantly jostled in its resting place on Dylan’s shoulder. Sleep pulls him under; lets him up again, just to watch the train doors opening; then tugs him back down to let a handful more seconds pass before the next clatter jolts him to wakefulness.

Every other minute, a jolt shudders through the carriage, shaking his body just a little before he falls limp once more, settled back into the semi-peaceful trance which has taken over him. Somewhere, his phone is tucked into a pocket, his hand resting beside it in the cloth compartment; vaguely, he’s conscious of the pins and needles which occasionally creep up his feet until he finds the temporary awareness to shift his limbs.

Through it all, Dylan remains a constant presence at his side, comforting in the familiarity he provides, and it’s easy for Owen to relax like this, finally able to rest after a day of stressing over all the little details, with far too little time available to just sit and relax, or to snatch a few minutes alone with the man who’s side he now nestles into. Christmas Day has worn him out completely, and he really wishes they could have made this trip on Boxing Day, but he’s barely going to have any time to spend with Dylan’s parents as it is, never mind if he cut out his only night in Dylan’s home altogether. Training calls on the 27th, and Owen plans to be there, no matter how blearily exhausted he’ll be.

Eventually, drained though he still feels, it becomes obvious that he’s not going to get any more actual sleep. His neck is aching, his back complaining viciously, and everything twists and creaks as he slowly straightens, a low groan escaping as he tries to crack his vertebrae. Glancing up from his phone, Dylan offers a gentle smile, then returns to messaging his parents to let them know that – Owen peers over to see the texts – they’ll be arriving in about twenty minutes.

Great. That gives Owen barely any time to make himself look in any way presentable.

Really, in all honesty, there isn’t much chance of Dylan’s parents liking him. Owen doesn’t know if they’re yet completely over the shock of Dylan being with a man, but even if they are, there’s got to be something they have against him for being the one to ‘cause’ it, or even just in the way that so many people who haven’t met him seem to hate him.

Shit, he’s terrified of messing up.

They probably won’t like him. He’s probably too abrasive, too Northern – too English, even. He’ll slip up, he’ll say something stupid, and he’ll ruin everything. Fuck, he’s not ready for this. Really, he just wants to go back to playing rugby – that, he actually knows how to do.

Owen’s distracted from his internal musings – slowly spiralling down into terror as they are – by the flash of a notification on his phone, startling him from his pessimism with a quiet buzz to accompany the stark light. Slowly, fingers still a little shaky from sleep, he reaches for the device and fumbles just a little before he gets a good grip to turn it on.

‘check insta’ Jamie’s text reads, and he finds the app in question wearily, taking note of the strange number of times he’s been tagged, or mentioned, in the past twenty minutes alone. _What the fuck is going on?_

_…Oh._

_Well, shit._

“Er…” he coughs, nudging Dylan. “Dyl, you should probably look at this?”

Dylan looks up at him, frowning, and peers over at the screen, eyes flitting over the image branded in the middle: a surprisingly good-quality photo of the two of them, Owen clearly asleep with his head on Dylan’s shoulder, Dylan’s arm around his waist. Owen’s temporarily distracted by tracing the lines that Dylan’s own gaze cuts across the image, absorbing the peaceful comfort that smooths his forehead, the fond half-quirk of a smile that tugs at Dylan’s lips as his boyfriend seems to glance at him; it’s one, single, easy moment captured with what was likely a simple tap, and while it probably appears to the outside onlooker to be a lucky shot, it seems so representative of the anchor that Owen finds in Dylan’s presence.

Someone must have taken a picture of them towards the start of the journey, because the lighting in the image is brighter, and there’s no one sitting where the photo must have been taken from when Owen glances up at the empty seats. Already, somehow, it’s been picked up by several news pages, and Owen suspects that the number of posts in which he’s been tagged is only a small fraction of the overall amount that have spread across the Internet.

“Does this mean we’re out?” Dylan asks him quietly, eyes finally tearing away from the phone, and Owen forces himself to look up as well.

“I guess so,” he agrees, and manages a nervous smile. “Yeah, I guess we are.”

At any rate, there’s a pretty conclusive picture of them all over Instagram, and Owen doesn’t even want to know how high the levels of heteronormativity have to be for everyone to entirely misinterpret it. They’re basically cuddling on a train on Boxing Day; anyone who assumes that they’re ‘just close friends’ must be _trying_ to kid themselves.

“Well…” Dylan blows out a breath, chuckles a little incredulously. “Who’s running a news page on Instagram on Boxing Day?”

Huffing out a laugh of his own, Owen can only shrug. Slowly, he sets the phone down and twists to look at Dylan properly, drawing in a deep breath as he examines his boyfriend’s expression.

“Are we alright with this?” he asks uncertainly; he can’t help but feel a little like he’s taking this too well, that he should be more worried than the small twinge of apprehension he currently feels, but at the same time, it’s been a long time coming, and now that it’s happened, there’s not much to be done about it.

“We are if you are,” Dylan reaches out, lacing their fingers together, and the simple gesture is enough to relax Owen.

“Good.”

He leans in, kissing Dylan chastely – and he can do that now, can be intimate in public without worrying, because as much as he’s nervous about how people could react, there’s no point in hiding. Within a few days’ time, people who recognise them will already know, and if anyone chooses to have a problem with them kissing… Well, Owen’s a little too high up to be worried about that at the moment, and he likes to think it will stay that way; he doesn’t want to feel bullied by strangers whose opinions he shouldn’t give a fuck about.

“I love you,” Dylan murmurs when Owen draws away.

“Love you too,” Owen smiles, settling back into his seat with their hands still joined. “…The media are going to have an absolute field day.”

Laughing, Dylan rolls his eyes.

“Did you ever expect anything different?” he returns.

_Fair point_ , Owen concedes, gaze drawn back to his phone as he considers what will happen. People will question their ability to play against one another, probably – not to mention their Co-Captaincy. There will be talk about their sexualities, and as much as the mainstream media will be positive, there will be those who will hate them for it. People will want them to do interviews, to talk about it all; they’ll be called ‘brave’ or inspirational’ or some shit like that – and maybe they really will help people. It’s a nice idea, one that Dylan will certainly like.

Maybe, regardless of everything that will come with it, Owen would quite like to help a few people as well.

“You know what I think?” Dylan breaks the temporary quiet. “I think they’ll all have heard the rumours. They’ll be itching to write about it with some actual evidence.”

Despite himself, Owen has to grin at that, softly amused.

“Obsessed with us, are they?” he snorts.

“Of course they are,” Dylan nudges him, eyes twinkling as the skin at their corners crinkles with his own laughter.

“Hmm…”

Owen lets his dubious hum trail off into the rumble of metal against metal, fixing his stare back on his phone. The question is just if they can handle it. Until everyone gets over their surprise, Owen knows that he’s going to have a lot less privacy than normal. Even afterwards, it will probably be pedalled out every time Sarries play Saints, and over every Six Nations, every summer tour… Owen’s really not looking forward to it.

Glancing over at Dylan, he examines the contemplative expression on his boyfriend’s face. Dylan’s eyes have turned to the window, unfocused on the glass, and Owen can only assume that he, too, is considering what’s to come. It will be worth it, Owen decides – worth it to be with the man he loves, no matter who can see them.

It will be worth it to be themselves, to be together in public, to let everyone see where they belong.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So... Yeah... I decided *not* to attempt to write Owen actually meeting Dylan's parents, because I really don't know enough about them. I only found out his mother's name last weekend, through some reasonably intense research (who am I kidding, I did a few google searches, scrolled through probably a year's worth of his Instagram, and finally found a site - actually the website of a podcast I already listen to - which gave it as Caroline. Not THAT intense...), so I'm not about to attempt such a butchery. That being said, I may come back and try it at some point, and I'm planning on doing some shorter pieces looking at smaller moments post-coming out. On that note, yes, I know Dylan and Owen were basically just waiting for someone to do something like what happened in this, but as a pretty strict rule, if there's anyone reading this who doesn't already know, DON'T OUT PEOPLE.
> 
> Anyway, someone's also given me an idea of looking a bit at how Dylan fell for Owen (I can't remember their username right now, but thanks), and I've been wanting to write something more from Dylan's perspective but hadn't settled on anything, so I'm likely going to have a look into that at the very least. It certainly seems like an exciting prospect. At any rate, I hope this lived up to expectations in itself (or was better, depending on the expectations in question).
> 
> On an entirely different note, I've got to say that I really feel bad for Mako right now - and no, I'm not talking about the three month injury, because if nothing else, it'll keep him safe through the rest of the season, right? It just seems like people are lumping him in with Billy when it comes to the whole homophobia thing (and to be honest, if Billy's going to shut up and not say anything more, I'm willing to move on with him as well), and I feel like he really doesn't deserve that. Maybe he believes the same thing, maybe he doesn't; we'll never know, because he wasn't thoughtless enough to say it. Just because he shared an upbringing with Billy doesn't mean who shares the same depth of religious belief in certain aspects - in fact, I believe Billy and Mako HAVE had different experiences of religion - and just because they share a faith doesn't mean Mako should be dragged down with his brother - or that Billy should be dragged down with Folau, for that matter, though that's beside the point. To do so would be to condemn all gay men because of James Charles (and I still barely know who that is, but I'm getting the idea that he's a dick). To look at it a different way... The Farrells are Christians. Not just the 'eh, we'll christen our kids' type, but the 'our kids do Holy Communion' type. No one's suggesting that Owen's going around spouting homophobic BS. But anyway, I think it's time to move on from what Billy's said, and give him the space he needs to accept that he was wrong. There comes a point when just continuing to talk about it merely affirms his belief that his faith is being attacked, and I don't know about anyone else, but I'm not here to attack people's faith. (Sorry for the long paragraph, just really wanted to put it out there.)
> 
> On a lighter note, I watched the Lions Raw documentary yesterday - favourite moment was definitely at about 14/15 min in... I got ridiculously excited when I realised Andy was about to do the Hurt Arena speech, though, and Zebo's phone call still makes me crack up (it's like, the fifth time I've watched it).


End file.
